


O Warmonger: A Tragedy in Five Acts

by sam_roulette



Series: O Warmonger works [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Theatre, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bastardizing Shakespeare, Canon-Typical spiders, Crack Treated Seriously, Familial Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Instability, Political Alliances, Screenplay/Script Format, Slow Burn, The Web - Freeform, This Fanfiction Is A Leitner
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:53:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 37,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24940378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sam_roulette/pseuds/sam_roulette
Summary: "SIR JONATHAN SIMS, aside:Threads… For the briefest moment,I swear, I… My eyes must have…(stumbling over his words)Something in the light, maybe…"*In which the Web puts on a show, courtesy of a previously unrecorded Shakespeare play and the Library of Jurgen Leitner.Click here for the table of contents and the players.Click here for the start of the play.Click here for the start of the real story.
Relationships: Annabelle Cane/Basira Hussain, Martin Blackwood & Martin Blackwood’s Mother, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Series: O Warmonger works [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1945219
Comments: 52
Kudos: 61





	1. Table of Contents

**Author's Note:**

> Find/yell at us on tumblr @sam-roulette!!

FROM THE LIBRARY OF JURGEN LEITNER - **O WARMONGER,** A LOST TRAGEDY OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

PERSONS OF THE PLAY

Lord Martin Blackwood  
~~Sir Jonathan Sims,~~ _ ~~an Unemployed Knight~~  
_Timothy Stoker, _the_ _Fool  
_Dame Blackwood, _Mother to Lord Martin Blackwood  
_Sasha James, ~~_a "Housekeeper"_~~ _a Housekeeper_

King Elias Bouchard II  
Jonah Magnus, _a Magician  
_Alice Tonner, _a Huntswoman  
_Jurgen Leitner, _a Friar_

Lady Annabelle Cane  
Basira Hussain, _a Philospher  
_Francis, _an Attendant_

Sir Georgina Barker, _a Knight_  
Michael Shelley, _an Artisan_  
Evan Lukas, _a Vagabond  
_Naomi Herne, _a Vagabond’s Beloved_

_Table of Contents_

THE PLAY

 **Act 1, Scene 1 -** In which the King sends his Fool away.

 **Act 1, Scene 2 -** In which an unemployed Knight seeks his fortune in the Court of madness.

 **Act 1, Scene 3 -** In which a false Lordling is scorned by his mother.

 **Act 1, Scene 4 -** In which more than Knightly vows are exchanged with the Fool as witness.

 **Act 1, Scene 5 -** In which a Lady and her Scribe send glad warnings in the form of poison.

**Act 2, Scene 1 -** In which the Fool reveals he is not at all a Fool and names are testament.

 **Act 2, Scene 2 -** In which a “Housekeeper” charms her way into becoming a Housekeeper.

 **Act 2, Scene 3 -** In which the King warns his Huntswoman of oncoming war and an Attendant warns of oncoming courtship.

 **Act 2, Scene 4 -** In which a Lady and her Scribe prepare to infiltrate the King’s Court, a Knight and his Lord muse on the propriety of court, and the spider’s dance binds them all together.

THE STORY

 **Act 2, Scene 5 -** In which all the world’s a stage.

Timtermission 1 - In which Timothy, the Fool, remembers that he has a brother.

**Act 3, Scene 1** \- In which knowledge and memories are shared amongst fools.

 **Act 3, Scene 2** \- In which comedians perform in wool.

 **Act 3, Scene 3 -** In which a visitor introduces new questions, and our actors should know better than to try and answer them.

**Act 3, Scene 4**

**Act 3, Scene 5**

Intermission.

**Act 4, Scene 1**

**Act 4, Scene 2**

**Act 4, Scene 3**

**Act 4, Scene 4**

**Act 4, Scene 5**

_?_

**Act 5, Scene 1**

[For the start of the play, press here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24940378/chapters/60364936)

[For the start of the real story, press here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24940378/chapters/64930783)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We at Sam Roulette would like to remind our readers that we cannot be held liable for any indirect, direct, incidental, consequential, special, or exemplary damages to your physical, metaphysical, or spiritual self or "soul" when viewing the contents of this Leitner in a physical form. We have taken all precautions in disseminating the information contained within in the safest way possible and have discovered through rigorous trial and error that this Leitner will not cause supernatural harm should it be contained solely within the confines of Archive of Our Own and other such online affiliates. We take no responsibility for the damages that may be incurred upon printing and reading a physical copy of this story. Thank you.


	2. Act 1, Scene 1 - The Danger's Your Loathing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the King sends his Fool away.

[SETTING: The castle of King Elias Bouchard II, on a day where sunlight is patchy through the windows. The King looks out over his neatly gardened grounds, a bored expression settled on plain features and his crown set aside, for now.]

_ENTER the Fool, jingling._

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL:_  
  
And what a day it has already been.  
  
Thank you, your Graciousness, for allowing my say so.

_KING ELIAS BOUCHARD II:_  
  
I don’t believe I allowed your say so in any matter,  
  
least of all in my Court. Last I recall, I was standing here,  
  
alone in my thoughts, without need for whatever reprieve  
  
you so love to claim you grant!

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, removing his hat, which now jingles softly by his side:  
_  
Did you not call upon me, though, your Highness?  
  
I am, after all, at your beck and call, and yours alone.

_KING ELIAS BOUCHARD II, turning, unimpressed:  
_  
I did not realize my being alone had a beck and call,  
  
nor as unfortunate a one as the jangling fool who comes ‘ere  
  
when I am but craving the drag of the pipe. 

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, bowing:  
_  
My sincerest apologies, your Loneliness.   
  
I was convinced you had a task for me,   
  
but if my King prefers a pipe to a lute,   
  
I shall leave Him be.

_KING ELIAS BOUCHARD II:  
_  
You act as though the pair be comparable to begin with,  
  
when with one you can barely gain release  
  
and with the other release all you can.

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, smirking:  
_  
If it is release you crave, my King-

_KING ELIAS BOUCHARD II:  
_  
And if you continue to blow smoke up your own arse,  
  
I may yet be mistaken in my first assumption   
  
that your lute is categorically different from my pipe.

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, making rather inappropriate eye contact with his King:  
_  
Please refrain from equating my lute to my lips, your Highness.  
  
My lute is not at fault for the words the Lord bestows upon me.

_KING ELIAS BOUCHARD II, matching the intensity of Timothy’s gaze:  
_  
The Lord bestows your words and yet miraculously  
  
no Providence is to be seen- what then, Fool,  
  
do I make of the constant steam from you,  
  
lips, lute, or otherwise?  
  
What call do you believe brought you in the first?

_A pause as Timothy straightens and brings his hand up to his chin as if considering something._

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, putting his hat back on and stepping forward, closer to the throne:  
_  
If my King wishes that I go, He need only tell me where.

_A second pause as King Elias exhales, annoyed._

_KING ELIAS BOUCHARD II:  
_  
Jonah has given the run around so that I be the one  
  
to reveal your fate, then. One could reckon that to be  
  
his calling card. Truth told, ‘tis due to his advice  
  
that I give you new post and life to the newly formed  
  
lordship under Lord Martin Blackwood,  
  
the evergreen heir of barren Duke Delano.

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, jingling thoughtfully:  
  
_Might a Fool as simple and thoughtless as I inquire   
  
as to your relationship to this Lord Blackwood?   
  
What is it that calls for my reassignment?

_KING ELIAS BOUCHARD II:  
_  
I suppose you need not brains to ask for simple answers.  
  
My relationship is the same as that to the former Duke,  
  
now sent to be with his Maker some fortnight ago.  
  
He had at once said he had a son, then said no son,  
  
and now fully formed does a son yet pop from the earth,   
  
bearing the roots Blackwood to embrace bastardry   
  
and the acknowledgment of Delano’s false legacy   
  
in one blow. You go forth now to test the strength  
  
of that sapling which grows in place of the ashes of the old.

_A clang and yet another jingle as the Fool drops, hard, to one knee, and his hat tumbles ungracefully to the floor._

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL:  
_  
It was something akin to an honor to serve you, my King.  
  
Should bastards await me, I believe it would be a mistake   
  
on my part to keep them waiting. I shall take leave of you now.  
  
I am forever gracious for my time in your Court.

_The Fool stands, places his hat back on his head with a flourish, and EXITS._

_KING ELIAS BOUCHARD II:  
_  
If it be graciousness the Fool leave, let it be  
  
that singular relieving grace of never more seeing  
  
as arrogant and slippery a tongue  
  
that so very obviously fights against its hold.

_King Elias holds his breath, waiting for the sound of the Fool’s nauseating bells to fade from his castle at last._

_KING ELIAS BOUCHARD II, raising his voice in a nervous tenor:  
_  
How now, Jonah!  
  
I do have the feeling that you have seen,  
  
for that is the sort of dark magic you do,  
  
that which you are insistent to inflict upon me.  
  
Are those not your eyes which gleam  
  
from the shadows of my mind, cat-shine bright,  
  
or would that be thoust many doll’s eyes  
  
keeping the line while you remain out of sight?

_An extended silence as King Elias Bouchard II waits for a reply that does not come. King Elias, voice growing softer and his fingers pivoting to trace the edges of the crown by his side, addresses what he believes may be The Magician._

_KING ELIAS BOUCHARD II:  
_  
It is as you said: Not a single hair out of place.  
  
A few good words and a small twist of the will--  
  
dead though it may be--go a long way.  
  
They believe Martin Blackwood to be Delano’s bastard,   
  
and those bones of the family before   
  
are well burned from memory.

_King Elias quiets suddenly. He slowly turns to scan the room, searching for the source of a gaze that is now and forever an advisor of sorts, but cannot find its source. Only the constant searching of his affect and voice, of his posture and manner. The King places his crown on his head._

_KING ELIAS BOUCHARD II:  
_  
But I need not speak more to that.

_A VOICE, untraceable:  
_  
Ashes to ashes, as they say.

_KING ELIAS BOUCHARD II, stilling, almost instantaneously:_  
  
And dust to dust is where he shall lay.

_King Elias Bouchard II moves back towards his throne and sits, eyes fixed to one corner of the room._

_End Scene._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Act 1, Scene 2 - Or Are They Just the Shoes? will be released on June 27!


	3. Act 1, Scene 2 - Or Are They Just the Shoes...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an unemployed Knight seeks his fortune in the Court of madness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for alcohol

[SETTING: The Kingdom of Bouchire, which is just now settling after a small period of unease. The closer it grows to evening, the more quiet permeates the air, until the sounds of children toddling after mothers and workers returning home for the day are replaced by the gentle patter of small groups of friends and the occasional drunkard in an unfortunate state just a little too early into the evening.]

_Sir Jonathan Sims, after acquiring lodging for the night, has ended up within the confines of a dingy but cozy tavern. He drinks a spot of draft wine and beside him, three Drunkards carry on a conversation._

_DRUNKARD 1, after knocking back a long draught of ale:  
_  
Swear it on m’ own life! Swear it on any life really, but  
  
my life’s good as any for this ‘cause let me tell you,   
  
straight as me own mum, that Lord Blackwood’s a nut!

_DRUNKARD 2, head tipping forward:  
_  
Innit true he’s only been holed up there some weeks?  
  
Not like that’s much different from his da-

_DRUNKARD 3, tapping Drunkard 2 on the shoulder, hard:  
_  
‘N wha’d’you think you know about fathers?  
  
Yours left so long ago yer mum forgets ‘is name.

_DRUNKARD 2, smacking the hand away somewhat aggressively:  
_  
Don’t needa have a pa to know when someone’s not right,  
  
and that old Delano? Not right as damn well anythin’,  
  
rain, snow, shine or shite! All quiet like up there,  
  
in that big ol’ house- ‘nough to make a man nut and nutter.

_DRUNKARD 3, grunting:  
_  
Innis mum full to the brim with ‘er own problems?   
  
Heard she was--

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS:  
_  
Excuse me, my… good men.  
  
My apologies for interrupting--

_DRUNKARD 3, sloshed:  
_  
Why interrupt me 'en, f’you were gonna hafta ‘pologize f’r it?

_DRUNKARD 2:  
_  
‘S th’ kinda thing y’ do if you got a father I reckon.

_DRUNKARD 1, smacking Drunkard 2 upside the head:  
_  
If yer gonna go spectatin’, do it on yer own time!  
  
The man’s ‘pologized! He don’t need to apologize   
  
for you lot’s full thrust’a bullshit.

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, making a face that vaguely resembles an uncomfortable smile and turning toward Drunkard 1:  
_  
I meant no offense of that kind,   
  
but I suppose I owe you my appreciation.  
  
_(to all three men)  
_  
Might I join your table for a brief moment?  
  
I heard you make mention of a Lord Blackwood, and  
  
though his is the manor I seek, I am afraid I do not know  
  
where to find it.

_DRUNKARD 3, guffawing:  
_  
What, you mean the fuck all big castle?  
  
The giant stone building in the distance?  
  
Got a moat n’ all those prissy lil’ flowers  
  
devoid of fathers, as of now--

_DRUNKARD 1, elbowing Drunkard 3:  
  
_ Don’t mind ‘im now- he doesn’t know how to speak  
  
civilized like at the best ‘a times, and now he’s…  
  
_(chortle)_ pissed DRUNKARD his way outta that much!   
  
Now whaddaya _really_ wanna know?

_A long pause as Sir Jonathan considers something._

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS:  
_  
I wish to pass none of my own judgment on the man,  
  
but I cannot deny that I have heard… stories about his livelihood  
  
and Blackwood Manor. 

_DRUNKARD 1:  
_  
An’ you wanna know if they’re true, eh?

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS:  
_  
I admit my curiosity cannot be stifled in this regard.  
  
Personal histories do tend to travel farther than one might expect,  
  
but it is a rare occurrence that they make their way to _me.  
_  
I come through town seeking employment, and I merely wish  
  
to judge the viability of Lord Blackwood’s Court   
  
before crossing the threshold.

_Passing laughter between Drunkards 2 and 3 as they elbow each other and mutter something about fathers. The conversation is not rich in terms of substance nor verbosity._

_DRUNKARD 1, a sly, amused grin spreading across his face:  
_  
Employment? At Lord Blackwood’s?   
  
You talk mighty fancy for bein’ one of the desperate ones,  
  
I’ll give you that, Sir Maybe-Knight.

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, obviously offended:  
_  
Desperate? To what end?

_DRUNKARD 1:  
_  
Well, Blackwood’s gone ‘n fired ‘is entire serving staff,  
  
turned away all of ‘is old man’s knights,  
  
and when calling for more, he’s not taken  
  
a single soul. The man’s living alone  
  
‘Sides some ‘o his army men.  
  
And trust me- I seen men  
  
bigger, stronger, more fierce th’n you  
  
go out that front gate empty-handed.  
  
Two weeks in and anyone knows you gotta be  
  
down on yer luck to set foot in the loon’s bin.

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, visibly annoyed at this point:  
_  
I am surprised you think my aim to be the same of  
  
bigger, stronger men. I feel I have been in your presence  
  
long enough that I need not be explicit in stating  
  
that brute force is not where my skills lie.

_DRUNKARD 1:  
_  
Fair point- you got some fancy words ‘n, I’m guessin’,  
  
fancy ideas t’ go ‘n woo the man over t’ your side of things.  
  
‘S probably been smarter men than you too, but that  
  
ain’t somethin’ I know as ready as bein’ strong in a fight.  
  
But you do the math- what’s it say when thirty-somethin’ ‘o   
  
the strongest guys who can stand workin’ for a bastard  
  
get told they gotta go?

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, unsettled, standing from his seat:  
_  
On such a lovely note, I am afraid I must take my leave.  
  
Quite the journey still to make, after all.

_DRUNKARD 1, nudging Drunkard 2:  
  
_ Listen ‘a that- he’s got qu-eye-te the journey ahead!  
  
Reckon he’s gonna find employment somewhere sane n’ solid?

_DRUNKARD 2, head snapping up:  
_  
S’what I’d do if I ‘ad a pa. 

_Drunkards 1 and 3 immediately smack Drunkard 2 around a bit for that. They’ve long since passed the topic of fathers. This gives enough leeway for Sir Jonathan Sims to EXIT, unnoticed._

***

[SCENE CHANGE: Sir Jonathan Sims walks into the small inn room that he is renting for the night. It is extremely simple, with just a bed and bedside table, but it seems comfortable enough, and has a small candle and candlestick settled on the table beside the bed. The two tenants who have taken the room next to Jonathan’s are clearly having a conversation, but overhearing their words is surprisingly pleasant.]

_JONATHAN, exhaling with exhaustion as he sits heavily on the bed:  
_  
Is this really to be the burden I willingly take on, then?  
  
Words have been exchanged, true, but words  
  
are often no more a comfort than unworn boots  
  
newly burnished with leather. The tread is bound  
  
to make the step steeper and wider with age,  
  
but in the interim we are left with a fit uncertain.

And yet it is only now, on the threshold that  
  
I intended to pull my bones through and make…   
  
_(pause, for consideration)_ perhaps nothing more  
  
than the means with which I might  
  
cobble together the memories forced upon me--  
  
that knowledge I am duty-bound to bear   
  
by the merit of living--into a more felicitous beast.  
  
They call his Lordship mad but harmless in turns,  
  
and it is only now that I learn my uneven steps  
  
might well cease to carry me forward.

Lord Blackwood, what is the shape of you?  
  
What be that thing that, as it may, makes you?  
  
What is that constitution or build or foundation  
  
that may hold the nebulous mantle of rumor  
  
that cloaks your shoulders? And how is it, here  
  
and now in the dimness of ignorance, that I know  
  
not what I have yet to know, to see, to hold the form of?  
  
Why is it, here and now, that I find myself reaching for it?

_A pause as Jonathan falls backwards unceremoniously from his sitting position. It is clear from his posture that he is not accustomed to doing so._

_JONATHAN:_  
  
Alas, that is much too heady for tonight’s consideration.   
  
There are ever more hours in the sun  
  
with which to wrack my wits into their steady oblivion,  
  
to form them into something more palatable.  
  
Perhaps it is in my best interest to let those hours guide me  
  
instead of willing myself to act beyond my own ability.  
  
Perhaps it is best simply to rest my eyes as I am able  
  
and move again once my joints demand it.

_Jonathan closes his eyes in a futile attempt to sleep as the candle slowly burns out._

_End Scene._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Act 1, Scene 3 - I Know She Loves Me... will be posted on June 28!


	4. Act 1, Scene 3 - I Know She Loves Me...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a false Lordling is scorned by his mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for emotional/verbal child abuse, isolation/confinement, and medical problems

[SETTING: In a manor at the top of a small hill, in the eastern wing with wide windows that face the inner courtyard and all of its splendor, Lord Martin Blackwood steps into a large, luxurious room with a tray of food. Dame Blackwood sits in the center of an enormous bed, dwarfed by the pomp of light blue silk and satin. The windows outside reflect a beautiful, dark night, and Lord Blackwood carries a lantern which makes the shadows in the hollows of his mother’s thin form all the darker.]

_Dame Blackwood stares through him, displeased._

_DAME BLACKWOOD:  
_  
What brings you here at this terrible hour?  
  
Leave me be, child.

_Silence except for the shuffle of Lord Blackwood moving closer to the bed, his steps tentative, to set the tray gently on a small table._

_LORD BLACKWOOD, forcing a small, pained smile and speaking softly:  
  
_I come bearing what I hope will instill some comfort,   
  
Mother. One of our dear _cuisiniers_ informed me that  
  
you have yet to come down for a meal today.

_DAME BLACKWOOD, following Martin’s movements out of the corner of her eye, though she remains still:  
  
_Whether or not I were able to see another,  
  
I would not leave. There is no incentive  
  
for my joints swell and lock me in place  
  
in this damnable blue pen you’ve confined me to.

_LORD BLACKWOOD, stiffly, but softer:  
  
_My dearest Mother, do you not remember  
  
choosing these very shades? Hues to soothe the eyes,  
  
silks to soothe the skin and bones of you.  
  
Do you not remember desiring this very castle  
  
that you claim imprisons you now?  
  
I only wish you could enjoy it so.

_DAME BLACKWOOD, monotone:  
  
_T’was my will, or so you say;  
  
blue to remind of a clear sky, silk to remind  
  
of petals soft on skin that has withered as bark.  
  
But these lovely imaginings are not mine.  
  
They are yet more fantasies  
  
of a fanciful boy turned Lordling by will, not mine. 

_LORD BLACKWOOD:  
_  
If you did not will it, did you not wish it?  
  
These walls are not mere fantastical imaginings  
  
in my eyes, Mother--they hold life in place, solidify it.  
  
We are not static here, but stable.

_DAME BLACKWOOD:  
_  
And your stability is founded upon the thinnest of threads.  
  
Spiders’ webs hold more weight than your title   
  
and hold more value of life than your vast estate.  
  
No matter the grave you lay me in, I am damned.

_LORD BLACKWOOD, finally showing some inkling of genuine anger:  
  
_Must you dig everyone else’s?   
  
Should we be so damned, as you say, is it not enough  
  
to get peaceful rest until Eternity strips even that away?

_Lord Blackwood’s anger transforms into something resembling defeat, and his hands come up to cover his face._

_LORD BLACKWOOD, muffled:  
  
_Is peace not enough?

_DAME BLACKWOOD, with fury burning in her eyes she turns to face her son, looking upon his form with disgust:  
  
_There is no calm in the silence of a tomb  
  
when I am still living in it. You are a lucky child,  
  
that I bring my nails not to scratch at the roof of my coffin,  
  
that my feeble teeth do not grasp flesh between them.  
  
My heart still thunders within my bones  
  
and so long as the blood flows back to its home  
  
there is no end to the water’s edge of grief I look forward to.  
  
If I would only scratch out mine eyes   
  
I might know an inkling of peace!

_A pause as Lord Blackwood takes a step backward, his demeanor shifting completely. In an instant, his hands are back at his sides and his shoulders are squared_.

_LORD BLACKWOOD:  
_  
Yes, Mother.   
  
I shall not contest that I am a lucky child.  
  
I hope the food calms your thund’ring heart   
  
long enough that you might rest your eyes awhile.

_A second pause as Lord Blackwood turns to leave Dame Blackwood’s chambers._

_LORD BLACKWOOD:  
_  
I will return for your plate in the morning.

_Dame Blackwood does not reply, as though the outburst had taken much of an energy she is losing by the day. She remains seated in her bed in stubborn opposition, never once even looking at the tray that overflows beside her with fresh fruits and bread and meats they were never able to afford in such abundance. She hangs her head and refuses to give her son the courtesy of a passing glance. EXIT Lord Blackwood._

***

[SCENE CHANGE: The other side of Dame Blackwood’s chamber door, where Lord Martin Blackwood paces. He pauses, looks back to the closed door, and whispers.]

_MARTIN:  
_  
For all her cries of ink and blue, it seems  
  
she cannot resist painting my mind so.   
  
Were there but one night as colorless as her limbs,  
  
I might for once feel the warmth of them.

_A faintly echoing click as Martin walks from his Mother’s wing to his own. The lantern swings gently by his side, casting shadows that almost resemble paintings on the walls. Martin does not look at them._

_End Scene._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Act 1, Scene 4 - Love and Blood and Whiskey....... will be posted on July 4th! And boys, it is a doozy


	5. Act 1, Scene 4 - Love and Blood and Whiskey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which more than Knightly vows are exchanged with the Fool as witness.

[SETTING: The Grand Hall in Lord Blackwood’s manor. A long, ornate table with no fewer than twenty chairs stands in the Hall’s center. A small set of china and a finely decorated pot stuffed with flowers are set out in front of Lord Martin Blackwood, but the rest of the table is bare. He sits alone, drinking tea.]

_MARTIN:  
_  
Empty tables for empty men   
  
to drink their fill and dine again.  
  
Wash it down and wash away,   
  
as per usual.

_ENTER Timothy, the Fool._

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL:  
_  
Have I heard talk of drink, your Lordship?

_LORD BLACKWOOD, somewhat taken aback by the Fool’s entrance but not surprised:  
  
_ Only the sort that the sun dictates.  
  
I might offer my apologies a hundred fold--  
  
should I be correct in assuming  
  
it is the drink that draws you in--  
  
for the stronger of our rations remain…  
  
buried.

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL:  
_  
I am afraid I must apologize in turn, my Lord,   
  
for I have no choice but to correct you  
  
by announcing that you are my new assignment.  
  
_(a soft jingle as Timothy, the Fool, removes his hat and holds it against his chest)  
  
_Timothy Stoker, at your service. 

_LORD BLACKWOOD:  
_  
Is that the long and short of it? I was not aware  
  
that Fools were allowed to make assignments  
  
of Lordships they have come to serve.

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, with a glint in his eye:  
_  
My previous statement was but the width of it,   
  
for the length of it involves a certain King   
  
that I believe you are well acquainted with.

_LORD BLACKWOOD, smiling a bit sheepishly:  
  
_ Acquaintance is certainly a word, I will say.  
  
Is it the word that carries snug fit? Perhaps,   
  
in politer company and within Heaven’s eye.

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, outright grinning:  
_  
Should politeness confine your tongue,  
  
I plead it not hold back on my account.

_LORD BLACKWOOD:  
_  
Oh, it is on my own account that I must.  
  
But come, poor Fool, and sit in   
  
whichever place the light shines for you.  
  
_(He begins pouring another cup of tea.)  
  
_ Surely even a drink as light as this  
  
may restore you, while the wine cellar remains  
  
to its own morbid devices.

_A soft scraping sound as Timothy, the Fool, pulls a chair back and sits in it. He places his hat on the chair next to him, and a small bit of dust poofs out from under it._

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, taking a sip of the tea Lord Blackwood has just handed him :  
_  
I may be a Fool, my Lord, but I am certainly  
  
not enough of one to deny a warmth such as this.

_LORD BLACKWOOD:  
_  
There is no foolishness in denying warmth,  
  
dear Fool and fellow, if it be not to your preference.  
  
Life falls away right quick, and wants the same,  
  
so saying what is denied and wanted is no folly.

_A pause._

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL:  
_  
Is any spot of relief from the cold truly unwanted?  
  
I should invoke my own title ten times over  
  
if I am ever to renounce genuine comfort,   
  
especially as it flows from the hands  
  
of a Lord such as yourself.

_LORD BLACKWOOD, pausing to take a sip of tea:  
  
_ It is my hope that the comfort flow free   
  
from this title that has bequeathed me abundance.

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, cocking his head a little:  
_  
You speak as though the title was not rightfully earned.

_A second pause is shared between them as Timothy, the Fool, searches for words and Lord Blackwood remains silent._

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, surprised:  
  
_ Do you not think yourself a righteous Lord?  
  
Is it actually not true, then, that despite your--  
  
pardon, my Lord--your situation,  
  
that you believe yourself to be among Kings?

_LORD BLACKWOOD, flushing somewhat about the neck and ears:  
  
_ ‘Tis not so! To declare myself among Kings is the same   
  
as saying that a flower be of the caliber of stars--  
  
both are worthy titles to be worthy of, but the one  
  
remains at the height of Creation’s adoration.  
  
The other sits here before you, drinking tea.

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, grinning again:  
  
_ So you believe yourself to be among flowers?  
  
What of your castle, then? A garden?  
  
A forest of lively sprites and spirits?

_ENTER Sir Jonathan Sims, commanding attention before Lord Blackwood can answer._

_LORD BLACKWOOD, aside:  
  
_ Should this manor be a forest,  
  
what of this man who sits beside me  
  
and this stranger who tromps through it now?

_The sound of Lord Blackwood clearing his throat as he cocks his head and waits for Sir Jonathan Sims to speak._

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, seemingly trying to hide his irritation:  
_  
It is in my sincerest apologies that I present myself,  
  
gentlemen, but the fault is not entirely mine-- to that  
  
does this empty manor pertain, posting lone guard   
  
to man the door and never tell another living soul.  
  
But what living souls are there to tell? You are  
  
the first that I have seen within these walls,   
  
so tell me straight: Where is it that I may find  
  
the Lord of this manor?

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL:  
_  
You may yet find a form of it in the chapel-place.

_LORD BLACKWOOD, trying to conceal a smile:  
  
_ What do you desire of this Lord whom you seek?  
  
Sturdy boots do not a steady traveler make,  
  
and I am afraid you are not the first to try.

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, eyes narrowing:  
  
_ I merely seek an audience, and to discuss  
  
the terms of employment for one who wishes  
  
to be his Knight.

_LORD BLACKWOOD:  
_  
These walls oft fail to offer much audience,  
  
but discussions are not unwelcome.  
  
To what end do you wish to be my Knight?  
  
_(a brief pause)  
  
_ Do my presence and my guard not  
  
strike enough confidence in you? Do you  
  
believe yourself better equipped to ward off outsiders  
  
than myself, who has spent a lifetime trying?

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, aside:  
  
_ This man who settles beside a fool to hide  
  
the full bite of his being is his Lordship?  
  
This is not the elder I had imagined.  
  
Yet it appears so- for despite the face of youth  
  
and absence of grey around unwithered temple,  
  
that which he wears, while plain, is rich.

_Sir Jonathan pauses a moment to readjust his demeanor, laying a hand over his heart as he bows deeply._

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS:  
_  
It is my apologies that I must offer, your Lordship,  
  
for I did not take you for Lord. If I were more fortuitous  
  
I would be happy to offer more than that, but   
  
I have little to my name besides my sword and my presence.

_The sound of Lord Blackwood clearing his throat for a second time as his eyes widen. Quiet laughter goes unaddressed from behind the Fool’s teacup._

_LORD BLACKWOOD, softer:  
_  
Do you enter these halls in an attempt  
  
to build your reputation, then? What business   
  
could a Knight who has nothing have   
  
petitioning a Lord who, in the words that  
  
flowed directly from the mouth of the Knight himself,  
  
can hardly be taken for a Lord at all?

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS:  
_  
I have heard talk that you,   
  
against all lords in power, will not   
  
strike one who speaks truthfully.  
  
In Jonah’s Court, for it is his Court in actuality,  
  
there was no such consideration.   
  
It is that consideration I wish to serve.

_LORD BLACKWOOD:  
_  
Truth is as much a tool as anything else,  
  
and I would not dare attempt to best it   
  
whether it aided in the harm or the healing.  
  
I do not wish to call myself considerate   
  
so much as I believe it to be an act of cowardice   
  
to smite one’s truthful patrons. 

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, gracefully falling to one knee, head bowing and hair falling over his shoulders:  
_  
It is that which is worthy to serve,   
  
though I have nothing more to offer you.  
  
I wish to offer my life for yours, then, so that  
  
I may be even a fraction as worthy as that truth  
  
you hold dear.

_A ringing clang as Lord Blackwood returns his teacup to its saucer with a little too much force._

_LORD BLACKWOOD, aside, flushing and stumbling over his words as he speaks quickly:  
  
_ Who is this strange Knight who bows and flows in here  
  
and claims to value truth above his own life?  
  
Is he, too, at the beck and call of lies and all things   
  
that a house like this readily brings?  
  
What really compels him to wish for this?   
  
What really compels me to approve it?

I do not wish to bind another soul  
  
to this wretched place, and yet upon  
  
my consideration of this very moment  
  
I find myself cloaked in color enough to match  
  
the lonesome decoration of this very table.  
  
I fear myself still unable to provide true audience,  
  
but it feels something of a great error not to listen.

_A soft scraping as Lord Blackwood pushes his chair back from the table and moves to stand. Timothy, the Fool, moves with him, but stands off to the side._

_LORD BLACKWOOD, smiling softly:  
_  
Please cease your kneeling, kind stranger.  
  
I feel I have no choice but to believe  
  
your words as they ring through this Great Hall,  
  
but if you are to take up employment here,  
  
I am afraid I must ask you your name.

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, surprised, but he does as ordered, standing and looking up at Lord Blackwood:  
  
_ My name is Sir Jonathan Sims,  
  
hailing from the domains under the rule of   
  
Lady Annabelle Cane, with whose squires  
  
I have trained for many years. 

_LORD BLACKWOOD:  
_  
Are you truly prepared, Sir Jonathan Sims,  
  
to take an oath in the name of your   
  
desired Knighthood? To promise your life to   
  
these walls and those who dwell within them?

As many as three-dozen men have tried before  
  
to promise me the same, and all in due time   
  
have found themselves unfit for it.  
  
Should you hesitate now, make it known to me.

_A silence falls over the Great Hall as Lord Blackwood waits for a response. When Sir Jonathan Sims fails to break the silence, Lord Blackwood steps toward him and takes his hand._

_LORD BLACKWOOD, in a feigned attempt to sound steady and commanding:  
  
_ If you wish, then, I ask that you vow to   
  
serve this foundation with your very breath  
  
and the truth that it pulls forth from your tongue.

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, going along unresisting:  
  
_ You have my promise to serve this foundation   
  
and to protect all who live within its walls  
  
until my heart collapses within it--  
  
and even then, it will be by your will  
  
and with the pleasure of your blessing.

_LORD BLACKWOOD, with a much softer and more serious tone:  
_  
Whatever will of yours you bring into this place,  
  
I ask only that it be deployed in service of   
  
your health and with great care. I ask that  
  
you forever hold your own livelihood as dearly as mine,  
  
for I cannot have a Court that withers under  
  
the weight of its goals.  
  
_(aside)  
  
_ For my heart is telling me that, should you buckle,  
  
the whole of this manor would fall with you.

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, trying to stomp out the heat threatening to rise to his face:  
_  
If this is your Lordship’s wish, it will be done,  
  
for everything that I bring will be as much your own  
  
as it is mine.   
  
_(aside)  
  
_ For that is the shape of things, as it is the shape of you,  
  
that this is the best means by which to give everything  
  
which I was destined to give.

_LORD BLACKWOOD, voice wavering a bit as he turns visibly red:  
_  
It is in the greatest acceptance of your vow, then,  
  
that I take you as my most trusted man.

_Lord Blackwood takes Sir Jonathan Sims’ cheeks in the palms of his hands and kisses him._

_End scene._


	6. Act 1, Scene 5 - These Lost, Violent Souls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a Lady and her Scribe send glad warnings in the form of poison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: canon-typical spiders

[SCENE 1: Stage left is illuminated to show a small drawing room in the Court of Lady Annabelle Cane, richly furnished with sturdy ebony furniture draped with imported silks. Lady Cane lounges partially on a chaise, fanning herself leisurely. Her hair is styled in the way of ìlèkè ìdí (waist beads), with white threads woven into the coils of hair that are woven about her head in a halo, or a crown.

Sitting by the lounge’s side, right beside where Annabelle’s head lays, Basira Hussain, a philosopher, has paper and quill prepared on a small, ornately carved writing desk. Basira taps against the wood, somewhat impatient.

Stage right remains unlit.]

_LADY CANE, tapping a finger against her lips:  
  
_ Dear scholar, tell me this, for I’m afraid  
  
my start is not near as grandiose as that  
  
which the occasion requires. What be the fashion  
  
of beginnings in your Damascus?

_BASIRA, THE PHILOSOPHER, after a brief, somewhat awkward moment:  
  
_ My Lady, I am afraid that Damascus is  
  
neither mine nor home to any one beginning.

_LADY CANE:  
_  
Does the sun not come up at the beginning  
  
of the day? Is there not the call of the mosque  
  
with birdsong for a morning? There is beginning  
  
everywhere, I would believe, so what is that  
  
which starts your hand across the paper?  
  
Lord Blackwood will be expecting my correspondence,  
  
and your script is prettiest of those I have peered into the heart of.

_BASIRA, THE PHILOSOPHER:  
_  
Do you presume language to be as  
  
mechanical as the rising sun? As  
  
timely as any given morning? Should your  
  
impressions of my art be so simplistic, I fear   
  
you would not have called me to your Court.  
  
But, if you must insist upon any singular beginning,   
  
my preference would be one of peace, my Lady.

_LADY CANE:  
_  
Sharp of tongue as always, lovely one,  
  
and sharp of eye in turn. But since I do have   
  
this pleasure to welcome you to my Court,   
  
I shall place my trust in your preference  
  
and start with- “Peace be unto you,”  
  
and then follow with an apology.  
  
For the remainder of this letter you transcribe  
  
is unfortunately the record of many a grievance.

_BASIRA, THE PHILOSOPHER, writing as she speaks:_

Does your Ladyship wish to apologize  
  
for the grievances she brings forth or  
  
for the stinging grief they may cause?

_LADY CANE, closing her fan and moving to rest her chin on her arm, gazing at Basira:  
  
_ The stinging grief, of course.  
  
T’was not I who did give rise to the countenance,  
  
the manner, and the misdeeds of our King.  
  
Said King has done nothing but promise  
  
that this list of mine extend to an infinity  
  
I dare not inflict upon my exalted scribe.

_BASIRA, THE PHILOSOPHER:  
_  
Might I inquire what it is that compels you to  
  
inflict such a list upon our young Lord?

_LADY CANE:  
_  
‘Tis less infliction and more the remedy.  
  
I hear talk that the young Lord be unaccustomed  
  
to the ways of his father’s Court. As such,  
  
he will not know the treachery of those who  
  
put power and easily damaged reputation into his head.  
  
I have many a grievance with our King,  
  
and this provides the opportunity to teach you as well,  
  
my gannet, the way that ill will is  
  
commanded, disseminated, politely sent away  
  
into the hands of those in sore need of it.

_BASIRA, THE PHILOSOPHER:  
_  
I regret, if I may, that you find my script beautiful,  
  
for as much as it is my own, the musings of   
  
scholars and scribes are no less a reflection   
  
of deceit and distrust than the musings of   
  
Ladies and Kings.

_LADY CANE, smiling, with a glint of malice in her eye:  
  
_ Of this I have little doubt, for you have  
  
teeth to guard the weight of your words, and   
  
the words of Lords and Ladies before.  
  
Be that as it may, your pen has not yet  
  
harnessed the venom which I alone brew.

_A pause as Basira shifts in her seat and smooths the edges of the paper in front of her._

_BASIRA, THE PHILOSOPHER, smirking down at the page:  
  
_It is simply awaiting your bite, my Lady.

_LADY CANE:  
_  
Then let us give it the full force of claws.  
  
Now, to begin…

[SCENE 2: Stage right illuminates, showing that it is separated from stage left by a floor to ceiling stone partition. Lord Martin Blackwood sits in his study on a comfortable chair of good binding, examining a folded piece of parchment with a careful eye.]

_MARTIN:  
_  
Tis quite the mark for a noblewoman,  
  
all eyes to watch and legs to wander  
  
and yet it remains, stamped on the page.  
  
Methinks this spider doth protect too much,  
  
for I fail to see how any correspondence  
  
on my behalf would require such a sturdy seal.

_A soft snap and a rustling sound as Lord Martin Blackwood breaks the seal holding the letter together._

_LORD BLACKWOOD, reading the page:  
_  
“Dearest Lord Blackwood, peace be unto you…”

_On stage left, LADY CANE continues to dictate the exact words._

_LADY CANE:  
_  
And after these sincerest apologies, Lord,  
  
I ask that presently you drink the nectar  
  
of these words and take them to thine  
  
heart’s innermost chamber. There is,  
  
within this land, a Court of such foul dealings  
  
that your livelihood be subject to danger  
  
even from the hands which presently have  
  
bestowed, fed, and pet your lovely hair  
  
to praise you as Lord. You are not theirs  
  
and when they realize, their hands shall turn  
  
to claws.

You know by now the Court that King Bouchard  
  
borrows from the coffers of the Heavens’ faux  
  
sentimentality- King and Father is he to us  
  
Lords and Ladies who pay him immense fees  
  
of what he deems ‘loyalty’. It is what we deem  
  
necessary to keep head above water and   
  
shoulders that are burdened with his high talk  
  
of magic and consequence. The tax that he steals  
  
from our lips and purses are immeasurably heavy,  
  
replacing gold and goodwill we are pleased to offer  
  
with iron rule.

Moreover it is you, Lord Blackwood, who is the  
  
most disadvantaged of us all, green as you are  
  
and soft as they perceive you. You are a bastard,  
  
that is true, but bastard to a duke whose heart   
  
only allows itself to be softer than in life due to  
  
the crawling rot that eats away at his mortal form.  
  
Duke Delano could not be milder, gentler in life,  
  
than all the downy feather beds where fae children  
  
lay their fangs and plan their mischief.   
  
It is in their estimation that your vast estate  
  
be brittle.

_A shuffling sound from stage right as Lord Martin Blackwood, still illuminated, shifts uncomfortably in his chair before sitting up straighter and taking a deep breath. There is a long silence as he tries to reread the words Lady Cane has just dictated to Basira._

_LORD BLACKWOOD, hushed:  
_  
This nectar does little to soothe the beating heart,  
  
nor does it fortify the wits which, it appears,  
  
are brittler still. As it goes, fortification is undeserved  
  
without the appropriate labors. 

_(reading from the page again)_

“Whether your house be built upon charred bones  
  
or held on by the bending reeds that shiver,  
  
I cannot know. I am but mortal.”

_LADY CANE, continuing to dictate to Basira:  
_  
However, I can say thusly that if your constitution  
  
and your bearing be fit, then the poison that runneth  
  
from this page on scuttling leg will sting for but a moment,  
  
and as that moment turns into but a time, you will,  
  
I suspect, thank Providence that it be this nettle you receive  
  
and not the stroke of the broadsword. Tend to your wounds,  
  
keep your head held high, and perhaps the end that awaits  
  
will be a fortuitous one.

And here, my lovely Basira, I implore you,  
  
to make my end prettier than the first verse:  
  
“waiting expectantly for your reply,” for he,  
  
I presume, will not find the time while   
  
in the midst of his wondrous little end.

[The lights on stage left begin to dim.]

_Lord Blackwood looks at the stone partition to his left, in the direction of Lady Cane, as she peers out at the audience with mischief in her eye to speak her final words._

_LADY CANE and LORD BLACKWOOD, simultaneously:  
_  
“Forever yours,  
  
Lady Annabelle Cane.”

[The lights on stage left go out completely, leaving only stage right illuminated, focusing the scene on Lord Martin Blackwood in his study.]

_MARTIN, shakily refolding the letter:  
  
_ Were my pen any stronger than my will,  
  
still would I fail to respond with much haste.   
  
The words from this dreaded page have  
  
knotted my tongue, it would appear,   
  
and I fear the resulting dam has made   
  
the nectar flow considerably slower.

_A pause, followed by a sharp intake of breath, as Lord Martin Blackwood sees a spider crawling along his arm._

_MARTIN:  
_  
What creature is this who is called   
  
to sting me so? You continue to extend your  
  
limbs and brandish your bite, and yet this   
  
remarkable threat of a frame fully expanded   
  
is but a hair wider than the palm of my hand.  
  
Were I host to jaws like yours, I should think  
  
I, too, would strike my captors.

_A second pause as Lord Martin Blackwood considers his words for a moment and lets the spider walk leisurely onto his other hand._

_MARTIN:  
_  
Were I better able to contain my  
  
sympathetic notions for a moment,  
  
I might find my hand trembling under  
  
this weight. Perhaps you steady its  
  
tremors, somehow.

Should warmth and solace find you   
  
here, and should I in turn starve you  
  
of them, I would find my title starved  
  
of any purpose at all. Come, let us   
  
join you with the others. 

_A faint click as Lord Martin Blackwood’s heels touch for him to stand. He pauses and cups the spider gently in his hands._

[The lights stage left begin to dim.]

_MARTIN, in a soft whisper:  
  
_Do you miss each other?

_A second click as the door to Lord Martin Blackwood’s chambers opens. EXIT Lord Martin Blackwood._

[Stage left falls into darkness before Lord Blackwood’s back has fully disappeared from sight, making it seem as though the shadows have swallowed him.

The curtain falls.]

_End of Act 1._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cultural Notes: During this time period the Oyo Empire, a Yoruba empire encompassing what is today Benin and Western Nigeria, was going strong. ìlèkè ìdí is a traditional hairstyle and is important to note due to the cultural significance of hair to the Yoruba people. More information available with [this very informative video on the subject!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=1&v=xnd0WgNwr3Q&feature=emb_logo) Similarly, the Islamic Golden Age is going strong with the Ayyubid Dynasty around this time as well.
> 
> Act 2 will be beginning on July 25!


	7. Act 2, Scene 1 - A Small Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Fool reveals he is not at all a Fool and names are testament.

[SETTING: In the verdant inner court of the Blackwood Estate, Lord Martin Blackwood stands in the shade, setting an empty bucket aside. The dirt is damp and dark with water and Lord Blackwood looks proud of his work. Sir Jonathan Sims stands off on the other side of the garden-to-be, looking sour.]

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS:_

A fortnight have I spent in this place--

a fortnight during which I have depleted its resources--

and yet your Lordship refuses still any attempt

of mine to aid in its replenishment.

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, with a laugh:_

Were you a Knight with a profound love

of gardening--not to mention a pension for it--

I might change my mind.

_(turning to face Sir Jonathan Sims)_

Though your cup of talents runneth over,

I am afraid it does not water my garden.

_Stuttered syllables from Sir Jonathan Sims as he attempts to protest Lord Martin Blackwood’s comments, and dainty jingles from the Fool as he ENTERS._

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, taking his hat off and bowing deeply, bells jingling:_

And what a day it already is! Thank you, 

my beckoning Lord, for permitting my say so.

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, motioning for Timothy, the Fool, to stand:_

This particular permission shall _always_

be granted, dear Fool. I pray you never

again feel compelled to thank me for it. 

_(turning back to admire his garden)_

Were you to give a name to this day,

I wonder which words your lungs might

find worthy enough to mix with the Spring air. 

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, standing as instructed with a sly grin:_

‘Tis your own stature which commands my lungs,

Lordship! For your smile beckons the way that 

distant Lighthouse on far yonder shore does;

the Hook which gently pulls poetry from 

these sweet-wine loosed lips. 

There is much to say, and I am afraid, Lord, 

that I have come to expect your willing ear.

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, with a small laugh:_

I see ‘tis also the cellar which beckons on this day.

My apologies, for my question bears clarification--

I asked not for the muse, but for the words.

_(tilting his head slightly as if confused)_

The ear will always be mine, but the poetry

should forever be your own mind’s creation,

should it not? I beseech you, do not praise _me_ for it. 

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL:_

Oh but my Lordship, do the Greeks not yet

give praise upon praise to the Gods for those 

muses which dwell so near to Heaven’s bosom?

What base artist, what toothless poet be I

who cannot form my words to your shape?

_(He winks, sliding closer to Lord Blackwood’s side)_

It is your ear which hears my words, and 

that same ear did inspire them.

_A pause. Lord Martin Blackwood clears his throat._

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, somewhat high-pitched:_

What shape is this?

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, aside:_

What does a _Fool_ know of shapes?

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, smirking:_

‘Tis not merely one shape, one form,

but the plenty of angles and curves 

that create the silhouette- and that silhouette,

in turn, carries within it the bosom and heart

etched with your name. And what is a name?

Yet more shapes that become you!

_(He pauses, giving an overdramatic Sigh Of Forlorn Love as he falls back, leaning partially into Lord Martin Blackwood’s space, the back of a hand pressed against his forehead)_

And that name, Martin--what a shape that is!

_A cough from Sir Jonathan Sims as Martin struggles to stutter out a reply._

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, through clenched teeth:_

And _Lord_ its accompanying hue.

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, speaking quickly and with mischief in mind:_

Oh, but title be but the accompanying hue

the way dessert accompanies the main course!

Catch my meaning, quick Sir, for there are

many within the shape of a true name-

‘Martin’, invoking Mars, that warlike God,

yet spoken so soft as a sigh upon the breeze…

What is a name if not multitudes?

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS:_

Should one name contain multitudes, 

why hesitate to add another? 

Does a godly name not deserve the title Lord? 

It would be a shame to confine his Lordship 

to a singular referential god, should we have 

the power to adorn him a full pantheon. 

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, smug:_

Ah, but we have no power to adorn our Lordship! 

We are but Fools, one in the same. 

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, his fists clenched at his sides:_

Were you not yourself a witness at my Knighting?

Surely you do not consider our positions equal.

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, smiling as sweetly as you please:_

Better our positions be equal than our wits,

for if that be the equivalency, I ought to have

made a rather poor Fool.

_A slight metallic sound as Sir Jonathan Sims’ hand moves to rest on his sword. Lord Martin Blackwood sees Sir Jonathan Sims’ anger and moves to stand between the two men, his hand bracing his Knight’s chest._

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, calmly :_

Though I see but one Fool, foolish

are both of you for arguing about 

names and titles. Though I myself

may be a Lord, it is but one of many 

shapes I did not myself _choose_ to fill. 

_(looking between Sir Jonathan Sims and Timothy, the Fool)_

Please, let it rest where it lies.

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, bowing his head a bit in assent:_

Of course, if your Lordship wills it,

I will allow my words to lie as they would 

during any other sun bleached day-- but 

I must muse, for I am a Fool and have little

recourse for the looseness of my lips 

and the swiftness of my thought, and I

must ponder what it means to choose. 

If your Lordship did not choose to be Lord,

and I did not choose to be Fool,

then is it perhaps that we cannot choose

whose title be fitted to our shape?

Perhaps Sir Jonathan means that I should be Lord! 

_A clipped laugh from Sir Jonathan, prompting Lord Martin Blackwood to press his hand slightly harder against Sir Jonathan’s armor. Sir Jonathan takes a step back._

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, somewhat harshly, in Sir Jonathan’s direction:_

Perhaps it would do Sir Jonathan well

to loosen the bindings which hold titles

so closely to one’s chest. 

_At this, Sir Jonathan takes another step back. Lord Martin Blackwood’s posture visibly relaxes, but his eyes remain cold._

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD:_

I do not wish to be perceived 

as a mere word, my Knight, 

any more than I wish the same

constraints be placed on you.

_(turning to Timothy, the Fool)_

Nor on you.

_A long pause as Sir Jonathan’s’ eyes flicker between Lord Martin Blackwood and Timothy, the Fool. Finally, they settle on Lord Martin Blackwood’s, and his posture relaxes to mirror Lord Martin Blackwood’s as he takes two more steps back. Lord Martin Blackwood’s hand returns back to his side, and he turns to face Sir Jonathan again._

_SIR JONATHAN, bowing his head:_

I owe you my sincerest apologies, my Lord,

for confining you was never my intention.

_(looking up at Timothy, the Fool, with a sly grin)_

As for the Fool, it appears he rather enjoys 

working within the constraints of his… profession. 

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, giving an equally sly grin:_

I merely enjoy the freedom to suit my title

to my needs--and the needs of so generous,

so calm a Lord, that brings us lovingly to heel. 

_A brief pause as both Lord Martin Blackwood and Sir Jonathan redden. Timothy, the Fool, continues grinning._

_SIR JONATHAN, softer:_

I know you wish for nothing more than

a swift end to these pressing formalities, but

you must know that my use of _your_ title

is a promise of reverence, not a mere…

utterance of a word, and never merely 

a formality.

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, aside:_

What man is this who, having passed  
  
only a fortnight in a manor with a secular Lord,

finds himself uttering _reverence?_

_(to Sir Jonathan)_

Do you not see your reverence as

the very heart of my concerns?

_(glancing between Sir Jonathan and Timothy, the Fool)_

My title of Lord, be that as it may,

and its accompaniment a Grecian referent,

do not a reverential history make.

I implore you, Timothy, to press on

in your use of my given name, that it might

tip the scales toward balance.

Sir Jonathan, please allow my pleas to 

reach you--I wish for nothing but peace,

and I fear reverence oft births violence.

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, bowing, with his hand over his heart:_

If it is as your Lordship wills it--

Pardon! If that is your will then, Mars, 

as you press the broadsword into my 

hands with such an honor that it nearly  
  
brings your poor Fool mortal to weep for joy. 

You will be Martin, and I will be appeased.

_A genuine laugh from Martin and a deep, somewhat worried-looking frown from Sir Jonathan, who does not respond._

_MARTIN:_

I must refrain from thanking your efforts, 

Timothy, for you speak my given name

much like a bird might fly as its wings 

finally catch the wind. Instead, I will

thank you for so obviously flying against

the current as though I wished it so.

I think I shall bid temporary farewell

to the sun and the Spring air, 

for my aching legs long for a row of chairs

and my throat and heart alike for nourishment.

And farewell to the dear words exchanged

in this same air, though I feel they will linger

in our lungs and in my garden a long while.

_EXIT Martin, Sir Jonathan, and Timothy._

[As the three men exit, the stage lights shift, shining just a little brighter down on a row of evergreens kept near the back of the courtyard that were planted for the previous Lord Delano. There is the silhouette of a woman, sitting in the lowermost branches. For several long moments, she does not move, waiting for the sound of footsteps to retreat offstage. Then, she drops near silently to the ground, only leaving the rustle of trees that could easily be attributed to the wind.

SASHA JAMES, a “Housekeeper,” looks over the garden.]

_SASHA, brushing the pine needles from her skirts:_

My vigil has borne fruit as readily as 

I am borne to this newly tilled earth!

What be this strange fae’s court 

in which I bear witness?

Finally I see Lord Blackwood in plain day,

no longer skulking around the stone

shadows which play into the very corners

of his lonely estate, and I swear to every

God I conceive: He is not of house Delano!

His manner may be similar to that of the former 

Lord--may he spend his days blessedly through

Heaven’s gates--but his look is nothing 

of the same.

Lord Blackwood must be, then, a changeling

of some form, set upon the Duke’s throne

by the King for some nefarious purpose.

But if that be true, why dwells the Knight

in his unhallowed halls, the sole protector

and sole commander of the Duke’s armies?

My eyes did catch upon the form of one

trained in the poisonous arts of war

by many-faced Lady Cane!

It may be, then, that the Lord has taken on

the Knight as a show of allegiance to the Lady,

who has yet to send poison, as I have heard

she sends, and this may be a trick upon the King--

this may yet explain the Fool of King Bouchard’s,

planted here among the mad tangled web

of vines which Lord Blackwood has sown,

for the Fool may espy some slight from the Lord

or his trusted Knight.

And yet, despite there being so few in the whole

of this empty estate and its empty opulence,

I have still yet to find the role of the Dame, 

who sits alone in her wing all day but for the visits

of her false Lordling. I’ve yet to see her face,

her manner, or her delight. She lingers

as a spectre in the back of the mind, a spot

of rot on an otherwise verdant array of freshly

gardened roses.

Where is the allegiance of false Duke Delano?

Who in the whole of this decayed kingdom

pulls the strings that tie Lord Blackwood’s

hands so closely to his heart?

But, fie, I mustn’t continue as such--

there are bells a-coming, and I’ve no intent

on becoming bait for a cat already so fattened

on cream and catnip and musings of titles.

_Sasha hides once more in the line of evergreens and the stage lights over her head dim, as though helping to shield her. Timothy enters, jingling._

_TIMOTHY, looking around with a measure of suspicion:_

I had thought I heard a voice, echoing

in this lonely place we had left behind

and yet with my return, the voice leaves

to its own devices--true in hiding, or else

false in mind.

_Timothy turns in a circle, looking suspiciously at the shadows. When nothing replies, he takes the hat from his head and sighs, holding it against his chest with one hand._

_TIMOTHY:_

Truth be told, if I be alone and speaking

to empty air, then perhaps the madness

is within my shuddering doubts. But if I

am joined, perhaps, by a sprite or two of 

lovely make, perhaps madness is undue.

To tell another truth, we are fools, one 

and all--for I do feel this creeping 

madness be better hidden than the spider

weaving in the margins of our words,

in silk, in sadness, in scope of trickery.

A third truth. I am afeared for us all.

Beyond the waters and newly grown flowers

fencing in this castle, there is only a forest of

a magnitude that makes a man small,

in its size, its silence, its emptiness.

_Timothy pauses. He looks into the shadows stage left, as if expecting a reply. When nothing does, he sighs, replacing the bell laden hat and turning to leave._

_TIMOTHY:_

Another drink I may well imbibe,

as my trade grows graver by the day.

_EXIT the Fool, jingling miserably across the stage._

_SASHA steps out of the treeline, the stage lights over her head brightening in answer._

_SASHA, looking to where The Fool has exited:_  
  
Perhaps I was too swift to judge this 

Lordship’s pet. There is good reason 

why the cat glittering with gold

becomes the shadow of death

for all the little forest creatures

in time.

_Sasha looks around herself, making sure that she is fully alone. Then, she EXITS, a determined expression on her face._

_End scene._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be out on August 8th! Came in a tad late with this one, but it was a bit of a doozy, haha
> 
> We'll also be using a new formatting style for this fic! All previous chapters have been reformatted to hopefully be easier to read.


	8. Act 2, Scene 2 - A Truce with the Ghoul(s)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a “Housekeeper” charms her way into becoming a Housekeeper.

[SETTING: Dusk-blue lighting fades in over Blackwood Manor’s Grand Hall, casting it in a soft shadow. On stage right sits the same long table from before, but there are more vases of flowers and other plants atop it. Where previously there were at least 20 chairs surrounding the table, there are now only four--one for each resident. One chair sits at the head of the table, while the other three surround its foot, and there are noticeably more plants near the cluster of three chairs than at the other end. Lord Martin Blackwood and Sir Jonathan are seated at two of the three chairs, and can be heard having a muted conversation, but their words are unintelligible to the audience.

Sunset-orange lighting from a stained-glass window illuminates stage left and unveils Sasha, the “Housekeeper,” standing behind a pillar that hides her from the Grand Hall table. Her soft voice fades in as Lord Martin Blackwood’s and Sir Jonathan’s voices soften.]

_SASHA, THE “HOUSEKEEPER,” whispering as softly as she can:_

I am lucky, it would appear, as this supposed 

sacred ground was as easily entered as 

any long-forgotten temple. There is much to 

turn over in my hands- from the creak of the

door hinges, to the quiet acceptance of guard

and lone servant upon my saying I had business 

with Lord Blackwood.

It may yet be some form of trap, of that

I am suspecting-- but I also suspect

that I am not the rabbit which they hope

to ensnare. As such, I must find a way to pass 

as scuttling and silent as the spider which I have 

heard the Lord consort with under the guise

of plain gentleness.

I therefore weave a tale- speak of how

no one in town will take me to their house,

will allow my hands to work in their most hated

of employs, despite my being capable;

speak of refusing a bed unless I were to bed 

alone, to protect my maiden’s honor.

‘Tis only the fabrication of reason which 

stops me short of debut. 

None shall recognize my voice or face,

but they will recognize the shape of reason.

But reason, fair reason, will come

in time, yes- in time! I need only speak

in a riddling way, and then I will catch

the meaning they assign to me, and 

make it my own. 

_ENTER Timothy, the Fool, jingle-free as he clutches his hat to his chest. He walks up behind Sasha, the “Housekeeper,” and speaks just behind her shoulder._

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, matching Sasha’s volume:_

What reason might the voice which rang

so beautifully through last night’s garden

have for whispering to this here pillar? 

_There is a momentary pause as Sasha quickly covers her mouth, muffling the bitten off squeak she lets out at the Fool’s sudden, unwanted appearance. She turns quickly on her heel and backs away four steps._

_SASHA, THE “HOUSEKEEPER,” uncovering her mouth:_

What folly be that which you spin, Sirrah!

I do not recall any voice of mine ringing

beautifully, as you say, for my throat be 

unaccustomed to creating such notes 

as you claim. 

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, placing his hat back on his head with a flourish:_

Ay, but my Lady’s whispers alone hath

composed their own tune--how is a

poor Fool such as myself to believe

it would not become polyphony

should I hear it more clearly?

_SASHA, THE “HOUSEKEEPER”:_

I am afraid I would not know one way

or the other, as I am no more Lady 

as you are Lord. What is true is that I do not 

hear my voice as something which

composes, as the quill may, or the composer

hum with the purpose of meaning.

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, smiling and tilting his head:_

Pray tell, then, how such a melody 

_would_ sound were the voice’s owner

more inclined to grace my ears with it?

_SASHA, THE “HOUSEKEEPER,” forcing herself to relax a touch:_

Nothing more than a work in progress. 

I am attempting to find the right notes, 

the most pleasing of eloquent lyrics,

that may allow me to ask his Lordship for

employment, for I have heard him to be…

selective.

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, after humming thoughtfully for a second:_

Perhaps, though the several weeks I have spent

in his Lordship’s abode and arbor hath taught me 

that so rarely does the truth of him agree,

in spirit or in story, with what King Bouchard

and far more noble men might have you believe.

Though your voice was quite the novel find,

your form hath crossed my path many times before.

Trust, I do remember where I saw it.

_SASHA, THE “HOUSEKEEPER”:_

Dreams are to memories as the customs

of far off lands- so alien in shape that, the more

they twist from the known, the more they curl back

into what might again be familiar.

It is kind, dear Fool, to say you have seen me

so often, for it must have been in your sleep.

I only hope they were pleasant visions,

and that they did not obfuscate the truth of my form.

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, grinning:_

The sweetest dreams of mine have not

yet sculpted such a masterful being as 

that which, mere moments ago, clung

so tight to a castle pillar. What a surprise 

it was, this Romanesque reality before me.

_(placing both hands over his heart with a wounded sigh)_

To think a man of my profession would not

recognize artistic truth as it stood before him…

My Lady, I fear his Lordship’s selective nature

would be rife with flaws profound as graves.

_SASHA, THE “HOUSEKEEPER,” smoothing out her skirt, as though worried:_

Profound as graves, you say, and is that 

to mean that those flaws be of grave nature?

Truth be told, I had suspected as such,

which was why I had not approached from

the garden last night. I had thoughts with which

to contend and rend, to mend again into that

fitted form that you see before your eyes.

They are of desperate make.

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, quietly:_

Grave they may be, but I do not believe it in

his Lordship’s nature to wield the spade.

_A short pause, during which he appears to close that train of thought._

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL:_

Desperation, as it were, seems not like a

stranger in these walls. I hope you do not

fear yourself to be its sole bearer, nor 

fear that reason enough for his Lordship 

to shut these doors upon you.

_SASHA, THE “HOUSEKEEPER,” looking troubled despite the assurance:_

I am quite ashamed, Sir, for truth be told

my desperation is one of many thousands

of common desperations that may yet dwell

within the homes and other such dwelling-places

of Bouchire.

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, softly, and looking somewhat pained:_

Aye, a household’s desperation lies not too far

from my reality either. 

_(a brief pause)_

Your form was most often that which crossed 

my path, but I must confess that my eyes were--

are--desperate to find another. That castle 

whose walls housed this desperate mind of mine

too housed my brother’s. 

Common desperations make beds of common 

dwelling-places, but it is those royal dwelling-places

which command us to lie in them.

_Sasha’s gaze softens as she takes a half-step towards Timothy. There is a long silence._

_SASHA, THE “HOUSEKEEPER”:_

I am sorry- for in such the same way as your eyes

were desperate for that blood that you love, my own

must have been caught up with another task.

I had a mentor, once, who was mother in all but name.

Despite my being a mere serving-girl, she had taken me

into her nest, with all the dearest knowledge in the world,

and now she has disappeared. If your brother be similarly 

displaced, then that castle hath laid upon us

many a blow, and many a curse fouler than 

the Magician could conjure.

_(aside)_

And yet, these damned eyes will not shine

with the thousands of common tears that

such acts are due- fall, rain! Fall, sorrow!

If only these cheeks were as dewy as

his Lordship’s garden, this might yet be done,

and this burning hate may be taken as my grief, 

the same as my genuine sympathies.

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, smiling after a short pause:_

Foul curses indeed, but surely I cannot curse

my own commonality for pulling me closer

to yours. Tell me, _mere serving-girl,_ what 

pulled your newly royal self to trace my same

path from his Highness’ castle to his Lordship’s manor? 

_SASHA, THE “HOUSEKEEPER,” head tilted down demurely:_

Simply put, there is nowhere else in the whole

of this wretched kingdom for me to take my place in.

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, smirking:_

I find it hard to trust in the “simply put” tale

of the life of a woman as complex as yourself.

_SASHA, THE “HOUSEKEEPER,” clasping her hands together as though desperate:_

If simplicity’s sake do no justice to a tale

you’ve doubtless lived a thousand times

over, allow my speech to fill the gulf with

streams of my thought to stretch

such a life out to its very limits.

My story is yours. 

_A brief pause as Timothy, the Fool, stops smirking and considers Sasha’s expressions._

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL:_

If a profession such as mine hath taught me

but one thing, it is this: A tale may be told

and absorbed and recreated a thousand times

over, and still each new pair of lips brings with it

a different choice of words.

_SASHA, THE “HOUSEKEEPER,” smiling a bit:_

Well-spoken, and well met, Fool, though

if you will permit my saying something foolish-

for I am but a common maid, with no stake

in the workings of Lordly Courts- I do worry

that if you speak too well, one more Foolish may

swagger in and take your handsome crown.

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, leaning back dramatically for a moment with his hat over his heart:_

Oh, fair maiden, how I wish I had forgotten

these bells in the garden such that your

descriptor of choice could have fallen into place

next to any other attribute. 

_SASHA, THE “HOUSEKEEPER,” taking a step forward and peeking up through her eyelashes:_

But is it not true that one such as yourself

be blessed with two crowns with which to call

handsome? The first jingles so sweet a melody

but the one beneath houses such plentiful 

ebony locks for which girls new in love sigh.

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, after a comically loud gulp:_

What be it that you sigh for?

_SASHA, THE “HOUSEKEEPER,” fidgeting with her hands:_

What any common maid may, Sir,

good work to fill my days, a bed wherein

desperation cannot thread its bony fingers

around this heart I wish to give, one day. 

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, eyeing Sasha’s hands and speaking softly:_

Though your wishes be common, and

desperation be damned, have we not

agreed you to be anything but?

_SASHA, THE “HOUSEKEEPER,” peering up at Tim’s face more fully:_

There was no word of ascent from me, 

but neither can I say a contrarian word, 

for I am coming to the sense that it 

would project badly upon yourself,

my brighter reflection. 

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL:_

Any poor projections would be a gift

should they accompany the utter delight

of mirroring a masterpiece. My only fear 

is that I could not do the work justice.

_SASHA, THE “HOUSEKEEPER”:_

The only work you do any injustice, Fool,

is that of your title, for your wits, I believe,

have lifted my spirits farther than any

Courtly meandering might have done.

I am most afraid that I may yet be ready 

to speak on my own half, if not the whole.

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, with a renewed strength to his voice and a cocky smile:_

Ay, but you do speak words elegant

enough for two, my Lady--enough

for the whole of mankind, should your name

coincide with your strength of spirit.

_A jingle as Timothy, the Fool, bows with a flourish of his hat._

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL:_

Nonetheless, my wits are ever pleased

to be at your service, dear maid. 

_(looking up at Sasha with a grin)_

Should you find those wits of yours desiring

said lackluster Courtly meandering of mine,

you need only snap your fingers and I shall

ensure its cohabitation with my wits.

_SASHA, THE “HOUSEKEEPER,” smiling effusively:_

What bounty I have been offered, this gesture,

given in no small part by a witted Jester!

Fool, if I were to snap my fingers hence, in

yonder hall, where dredges of night still settle

around the early risen masters of this estate,

would you be by my side? 

If you are my mirror, then our wits combined 

will confirm my status and we shall be reflected 

in your Lordship’s eyes as friends of a feather.

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, with a laugh:_

Feathered jester gestures flock together,

as the saying goes. In truth, forever

shall I flutter through gardens and halls

in search of this maiden’s call.

_SASHA, THE “HOUSEKEEPER,” laughing a bit at the tongue twister:_

If that is your heart, then I am appeased!

It is, then, to the sight of the Lordship 

and the amiable way of his morning court.

If you would only follow- if you would please.

_Sasha, the “Housekeeper,” finally takes the last few steps forward, so that she and Timothy, the Fool, stand with their arms just short of brushing. She snaps her fingers and begins walking toward stage left, into the dimmed lights. Timothy, the Fool, stands for a moment with his jaw slack before shaking his head and following her lead._  
  


_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, aside:_

Cupid hath surely chosen my fate,

drawn back with sure aim at what

lies in wait behind those words, 

those hands, that face.

[The blue-filtered lighting in the Grand Hall moves to fill the area where Sasha, the “Housekeeper,” and Timothy, the Fool, were just standing.]

_Upon hearing two unexpected sets of footsteps, Sir Jonathan and Lord Martin Blackwood finally look up from their muted conversation and the empty pot of tea on the Grand Hall table and notice that the sun has set around them._

_SIR JONATHAN, rising to his feet:_

Was your Lordship expecting any company or 

are the interlopers in this empty hall to be ill met?

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, gesturing for Sir Jonathan to stay where he is:_

I did not call for it, no, but neither was I expecting

our dear Fool or yourself. I cannot stop you

in your wariness--nay, I rather welcome it--

but I pray you resist the quick temptation of your sword 

until my say so.

_Sir Jonathan purses his lips for a moment but stands down, hand still hovering over the hilt of his sword._

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, softly, with a small smile:_

I appreciate your heeding my words, my Knight.

_(calling to the Hall)_

My ears know well those steps which accompany

the sweet melody of a certain adornment, 

yet that second pair rings through this Hall

as a novel composition. Might I ask the name

of this stranger who carries themselves so?

_Sasha steps closer to Lord Blackwood, and bows deeply, hands clasped over her heart._

_SASHA, THE “HOUSEKEEPER,” keeping her eyes subserviently downcast:_

You might, and as you may, I strive to comply.

My name is Sasha James, your Lordship-

I am no more than a maid seeking employment, 

as nowhere else will have me.

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, with a slight bow:_

Forgive me, Martin, for already have I spent 

many a lovely minute in conversation with

this maiden prior to her formal introduction.

I feel she will make pleasant acquaintance

with these walls and their inhabitants.

  
  


_SASHA, THE “HOUSEKEEPER”:_

Although if acquaintance be not what you

seek, I may also blend into the decor

as readily as your own shadow.

I have learned to make toil into silence.

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, motioning for Sasha, the “Housekeeper,” to rise from her bow:_

Though I do not know you, I am 

well-acquainted with that desire for employment, 

and intimately familiar with those inclinations 

which might cause one to fade into posteriority.

I pray my reputation in that regard be not

that which binds your mind to the possibility 

of employment in this place. Toil sans reprieve

is deserving of proper grief, not silence.

_Timothy, the Fool, begins to rise from his bow and Sasha, the “Housekeeper,” joins so they rise in unison._

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, with a somewhat mocking glance at Sir Jonathan as he places his hat back on his head with a jingle:_

Grave mistakes indeed, should _his Lordship_

prefer acquaintances of the silent variety.

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, with a fond smile:_

Indeed, I would be planting headstones. 

_A soft, somewhat awkward laugh from Sir Jonathan, who has removed his hand from his sword’s hilt._

_SIR JONATHAN, shaking his head to maintain his annoyed air:_

You have planted all else, my Lord.

I hardly see the difficulty in planting some

of the more morbid variety, next to the mint.

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, eyes widening slightly:_

Do mine ears Fool me?

Has the epitome of Knighthood itself,

the very height of royal propriety 

and stature-- _(turning to Sasha)_ whose thumbs, 

as confirmed by his very own Lord, 

are decidedly of the _un-green_ variety--

found his humor in gardening? 

_SIR JONATHAN, scowling at the Fool:_

No more than you find humor 

in your own Fool existence.

_SASHA, THE “HOUSEKEEPER,” eyes gleaming with some mischief:_

But would it not be humorous

to find one’s existence folly?

It is the witless who may yet 

take your joke, Sir Knight, and turn

it all over in their skulls for the meaning

of such a humor- but a good Fool ought

laugh and keep his wits about him for such.

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, with a hand over his heart:_

I fear my reputation as a good Fool

has here in this Grand Hall been

thoroughly shattered by the words

of this Sasha James.

In her I do not find fault, however,

for it is in viewing full folly as peripheral

that one’s Fool turns faulty.

_(with a stupid grin)_

What foolishness! ‘Tis my mistake.

_SIR JONATHAN, eyes narrowing as he glances at Sasha:_

If this maid do be viewed through full folly,

I can see why our Fool would bring her.

_SASHA, THE “HOUSEKEEPER”:_

Is that the case, though you have no Fool’s eye?

Or perhaps I merely misunderstood your early jest

as a scholarly beat, when it was second Foolishness.

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL:_

Tis not my eye which views her through full folly;

tis merely the full folly of a Fool’s life which 

finds her form following in my footsteps.

_SASHA, THE “HOUSEKEEPER,” smiling:_

Though I find your wordplay enticing, I must

restrain myself from continuing the bit.

Would I but know how other eyes besides this

dearest of Fools look upon me, my curiosity

would retreat. 

_The sound of Lord Martin Blackwood clearing his throat as he looks pointedly between Sir Jonathan, Timothy, the Fool, and Sasha, the “Housekeeper.”_

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, with a gleam in his eye:_

Quite--though I find this foolish faffing fascinating,

I am yet more interested in the speed with which

this Sasha has found her comfort in such fun.

Quite elaborate and extensive tales of this isolated 

and ice-ridden hilltop house have been woven 

by many a silken tongue, and though my own tongue 

catches at the truth behind them, never still do I 

deny their claims. Should a warmth creep in 

and find itself welcome, I would not condemn 

the change.

_SASHA, THE “HOUSEKEEPER,” meeting his gaze:_

If I could take the hand of sun-kissed summer

and lead her into this frosty hall, I would do so

in every heartbeat it took between this moment

and the time which frozen Pluto would come take

me and Proserpina away.

[The blue-filtered lights dim slightly.]

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD:_

As Springtime’s gentle breath has slowed to 

yet a softer, slumbering rhythm, I feel it 

would not do to turn you away on this night.

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL:_

Ay, and with the Spring sun’s faded kiss,

and this promise of Summer’s kiss each

new morning, I feel your garden would

swear to loathe this place should you

turn her away any night.

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, smiling:_

For the sake of my sun-kissed garden, then,

your employment is very much welcome.

_(with a quick, glinting glance at Sir Jonathan)_

May it stay ever mint-less.

_Sir Jonathan gives his Lordship a wry look in response, but holds his tongue so as to not set the two banterers off again. Sasha, the Housekeeper, smiles widely and bows again._

_SASHA, THE HOUSEKEEPER:_

But may this Court and everyone in it

stay as evergreen as they are now.

It is my greatest pleasure to remain

among you, dear fellows and Lordship.

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD:_

The pleasure is undeniably ours, Sasha.

Should you not find your own fifth seat

at this table in the morning, ensure

I do not forget to join it with the others.

_SIR JONATHAN, sighing with some trepidation after a moment:_

And in the meantime, I will show you

to any selection of rooms. You’ll have 

your pick among the furnishings and

assorted empty spaces. Several are not

for us--but those are far between.

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD:_

Goodnight, dear Knight, dear Fool, dear Housekeeper.

_(turning to walk from the Hall)_

I wish you all a pleasant evening,

and dreams of breath and stars. 

_EXIT Lord Martin Blackwood._

_SASHA, THE HOUSEKEEPER, somewhat taken aback by the departure:_

Most strange! I thought that we had had

but a moment together, and now he’s gone,

just as silently as a fae slipping into the mists!

I hadn’t the chance to bid him good night.

_SIR JONATHAN, muttering:_

Nor I, and I’ve waited the longer.

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, smirking and slinking up to Sir Jonathan:_

Why should this Knight be unsettled by a missing

“good night” after a mere fortnight in dear Martin’s

castle, when after but forty minutes were found

a Lord’s lips to prove a bond inseparable?

_SIR JONATHAN, jolting backward as though burned, and blushing just the same:_

The same reason why after a mere fortnight in

 _our Lordship’s_ estate you come no closer to 

making him laugh. 

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, after considering Sir Jonathan’s point for a moment:_

He did gift us all with the loveliest of smiles,

though, did he not?

_(turning toward Sasha, the Housekeeper)_

I am oft unaccustomed to prayer, but I do pray

you get to see more of them, for truly do they

douse one’s heart with warmth.

_(turning back to Sir Jonathan)_

Now, shall we find appropriate accommodations 

for dear Sasha?

[Further dimming of the blue-filtered stage lights.]

_SASHA, THE HOUSEKEEPER, before Sir Jonathan can speak:_

I should think so, else I stand in the crossfire

of your verbal lashings. So sharp, both of you,

with so delicate a lady between! 

_A pause as Sir Jonathan considers this. Timothy, the Fool, holds his right arm out for the new Housekeeper to hook her left arm through, and motions for Sir Jonathan to do the same. Sir Jonathan does not do the same, and Timothy, the Fool, smirks._

_SIR JONATHAN, eyeing the proffered arm:_

I’ll take the lead, as usual, as our Fool insists

upon trodding ground meant to remain unscathed.

_SASHA, THE HOUSEKEEPER, putting her arm through the Fool’s:_

So your troubles lie in making merry.

_SIR JONATHAN, letting out a long suffering breath:_

Your quarters, maid- let us lay you to rest,

lest your Foolish accessory lead you astray.

_EXIT Sir Jonathan._

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, gesturing towards the door with his free arm:_

Shall we follow him, then? 

_SASHA, THE HOUSEKEEPER, smiling mischievously:_

We may, but if I were to be plain, I might say

I’d allow myself to be led far and astray,

if it be you leading on. 

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, smirking, but blushing a little:_

I do fancy myself a fair bit of wandering,

but in truth, I do not wish myself the target

of a certain Knight’s qualms come morning.

_SASHA, THE HOUSEKEEPER:_

Then like gentle lambs after the most irritable

of shepherds, allow us haste to catch up--

take my back as I lead, so if the Knight may

have some complaint, it shall fall dead at my feet. 

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, with a short laugh:_

Lead on, fearsome lamb that you are. 

_Sasha, the Housekeeper, leads Tim stage left. Both Sasha and Tim EXIT, walking arm in arm with secret little smiles._

[The stage lights fade entirely to black.]

_End scene._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Act 2, Scene 3 - Sure of Aim will be posted on August 8!
> 
> Come yell at us on tumblr @sam-roulette!!


	9. Act 2, Scene 3 - Sure of Aim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the King warns his Huntswoman of oncoming war and an Attendant warns of oncoming courtship.

[SETTING: The throne room of King Elias Bouchard II. Unlike the gardens, which are quite obviously owned by royalty but are still quite plain and tidy, the throne room is very ornately decorated. It is a long, thin room with three long, dark tables on either side of a deep amethyst rug that stretches the length of the room. At the end of the rug is a set of four steps that lead up to a looming throne built of twisted vines of gold and silver inlaid with emeralds and amethysts.

The walls are lined with twisting iron sconces whose torches are currently unlit. The only light in the room comes from a large stained-glass window which is nearly the same size as the far wall. The throne stands in its center, and large wings fan out to its left and right in the window’s design. Above the throne, the window contains what appears in the early-morning sun to be a ring of fourteen eyes that vary in size and color. In the middle of the throne sits King Elias Bouchard II.]

_ Alice Tonner, a HUNTSWOMAN, ENTERS through the large double doors slowly creeping open. Despite the sparse rays of light peeking through the shadows of clouds held at bay by stained glass, she seems almost bored. She bows shortly at the waist and meets King Bouchard’s eye. _

_ ALICE, A HUNTSWOMAN, flatly: _

What do you want.

_ KING ELIAS BOUCHARD II, with a quick hum as he raises an eyebrow: _

I see a soft Spring morning, as always,

does little to inspire your spirits. I ask 

for little more, my Huntswoman, than

the occasional pleasantry. 

_ ALICE, A HUNTSWOMAN: _

This is as pleasant as the occasion

requires. That’s why I skipped

pleasantries to ask you--

what do you want? Be direct.

I have work to do besides yours.

_ KING ELIAS BOUCHARD II: _

It is my mind’s eye which deceives

me now, or are you not employed

as the marshal to my hunting party?

_ ALICE, A HUNTSWOMAN: _

I am. I also maintain the forest grounds,

watch over known and future prey,

maintain archery tools and men.

There won’t be a hunt with blunted arrows.

_ KING ELIAS BOUCHARD II: _

The call of and thirst for the forest

is quite insatiable, I do not deny it--

but that call which sates your pockets

is mine.

_ ALICE, A HUNTSWOMAN, not even trying to hide the fact that she’d rather be anywhere else: _

That is true, and that is the reason

I keep asking what you want to do.

Are you trying to arrange a hunt

today or another day? 

_ Two soft clicks as King Elias Bouchard II stands from his throne with a sigh.  _

_ KING ELIAS BOUCHARD II, walking down the steps toward the Huntswoman: _

Peace and gentleness are but destined 

to be thwarted in this kingdom, yet

its castle weeps nonetheless at the loss.

_ (a second sigh) _

If there be grief-peppered clouds in my Court,

any possibility of full sun does tug at my desires so.

Ready my horses--I trust your marshal skill

will allow you to do so before these weeping,

violent rains creep ever outward?

_ ALICE, A HUNTSWOMAN, straightening up: _

Yes, I am able to ready your horses before

any turbulent weather arises. As such,

I would still need to know the reason for 

your venture, so that I can summon men,

gather supplies and find appropriate weapons.

Flowery words have no meaning

if there is no command beneath.

_ KING ELIAS BOUCHARD II, standing before the Huntswoman and eyeing her steadily: _

Must a hunt be always justified and well-reasoned?

Let us simply call this one… a game.

_ ALICE, A HUNTSWOMAN, making unbreaking eye contact: _

A game as in a genuine game

or as in political subterfuge?

I need to structure the party accordingly.

_ KING ELIAS BOUCHARD II, smirking:  _

Now, my Huntswoman, it does not do

to focus on pedantics. Either path results in

planned carnage, and either way, it will be

you who has readied the weapons.

_ ALICE, A HUNTSWOMAN: _

Yes. That is literally my job. 

Funny you say to not focus on pedantics

when that appears to be all you speak in-

I ask again. What men do you wish to ride with?

And furthermore, what is the purpose

so that I give your enemies unfavorable roles?

_ KING ELIAS BOUCHARD II, after a moment of consideration: _

If you really must be so insistent, I believe

riding alone to be preferable on this day,

save only for the company of a courser 

and my merlin. As for my enemies, I wish

for nothing but their awareness of the culling.

_ ALICE, A HUNTSWOMAN, bowing shortly at the waist: _

It will be done, your Highness. 

They will know that you ride, 

but won’t know if it will be for them.

_ KING ELIAS BOUCHARD II, with a soft smirk: _

Excellent.

_ (turning away from the Huntswoman to glance at the stained glass window) _

All is as it should be with the changing 

of the seasons: The roots reach farther

each year, solidifying their presence within 

earthen abundance. Despite this presence,

this yearly expansion into and destruction of

clay and dirt and rotten homes, the worm

never suspects a thing.

_ There is a moment of silence as Alice just stares blankly at Elias’ back. _

_ ALICE, A HUNTSWOMAN: _

That’s lovely for you, Highness, 

but I fail to see any reason in your words.

_ ENTER Francis, an Attendant, walking along the length of the King Bouchard’s throne room, holding a folded piece of paper in their right hand. Their movements are slow and reserved as they approach the King and the Huntswoman. They bow their head as they hold the paper out towards King Bouchard with both hands. The King takes the paper with a flick of his wrist and breaks the seal to open it. He hands the paper back to the Attendant and gestures for them to read it aloud. _

_ FRANCIS, AN ATTENDANT: _

My King, the words on this page are addressed 

to you, from one Lady Cane.

[From offstage, there is Lady Cane’s voice, echoing throughout the auditorium. Her words sync with Francis’s mouth movements.]

_ LADY CANE: _

To Our Esteemed Ruler. 

_ ALICE, A HUNTSWOMAN, aside:  _

There is something unsettling. The Attendant 

speaks, but not with their own voice. 

_ FRANCIS, AN ATTENDANT, speaking in tandem with the unseen LADY CANE: _

I have been instructed recently

by a scholar of much repute and 

fine weaving to begin my letters thus-

“Peace be unto you.” In reality,

I am afraid there is much conflict

that will march unto you

in time.

_ KING ELIAS BOUCHARD II, aside: _

My deepest appreciation, dearest Lady Cane,

for your  _ merciful _ blessings of peace,

but I am afraid they fall rather flat

where they are not needed.

Conflict does not move as you suggest

and remain unnoticed by Kings.

Even the planets could not conspire 

to align about our very own nor 

to change their course without 

my knowledge, for the very moment

of their action will have already become 

but a memory in my eyes.

Go on, then, and allow me access

to your most prized comprehension

of the reason for this supposed conflict.

_ FRANCIS, AN ATTENDANT, continuing: _

You have planted the seedling

within the hollowed shell of a 

forest emptied by the flames

of your deceit. You have watered

those ashen roots with pain, blood, 

and no small amount of sorrows, yet 

without your knowledge there grows 

a slumbering phoenix in a ruined world. 

What will the plumage of its wings,

Lordship, be in comparison to yours?

What is the plumage of your lily white

false dove to that of a Kingfisher,

crowned in sapphires and amber

and all the sweetest fruits and honey

and thorniest of vines? My King,

My Lord, my most golden of idols.

_ KING ELIAS BOUCHARD II, aside: _

Be not confused, my dear Lady,

for it is not my pillaging that razes forests

and rots their clearings. I merely

plant true saplings elsewhere and trust

that decay will act as it must. 

Were I instead to respond to your warning 

myself of this ashen King, I would not

hesitate to remind you that lonesome birds

too are often lost in the wreckage.

_ FRANCIS, AN ATTENDANT, continuing: _

The wings of bluefire will rain down

as downy soft as rain upon your crown,

should you choose to ignore this,

a warning from your most worried,

your most trusted, your most bereaved

of humble subjects. You may bring me 

to heel, at your own peril, for I am offering

my hand up.

My hands are offered up unto you,

the same as peace ought to be,

and in that vein I hope my arrival will

not come as a surprise. I bring only

my wit, my words, all the loveliest 

gifts in my employ, and a few 

materials which you might find useful.

_ KING ELIAS BOUCHARD II, aside:  _

I believe I had enough  _ wit  _ and  _ lovely gifts _

at my employ until the most recent

of weeks. Should those clever words of yours

find themselves lost in the air about my castle

grounds, you may find your lungs empty

and your planted feet grounds-less. 

_ FRANCIS, AN ATTENDANT, concluding: _

The ashes are growing steadily hotter,

my King, and the beginning sparks are

surer than all else to set your Winter

aflame. 

_ A beat of silence as the King waves Francis away and turns to face his Huntswoman. _

_ KING ELIAS BOUCHARD II, smirking: _

Now, my Huntswoman, were we not just 

discussing the warmth of a Spring sun?

_ ALICE, A HUNTSWOMAN, deadpan: _

I fail to see how that’s relevant

to threats of oncoming war, but yes.

_ KING ELIAS BOUCHARD II:  _

A pantheon’s gods can never truly act

in isolation, my marshal. Should Mars,

in all his rage and ceaseless violence,

move in tandem with the Sun’s coming 

warmth, the right roots shall be 

nurtured nonetheless.

_ ALICE, A HUNTSWOMAN: _

King. I cannot express the depths

to which I do not care about pantheons 

or pretty sayings about roots.

I am just trying to organize a hunt.

Shall I put Lady Cane as a companion

for your party?

_ KING ELIAS BOUCHARD II, with a sigh: _

I suppose you shall not. I believe

her Ladyship and I could better entertain

this  _ interesting  _ discussion in writing.

_ ALICE, A HUNTSWOMAN, bowing shortly at the waist: _

In the meantime, then, I shall prepare.

I will also let a few select servants know

of the arrival of her Ladyship, and her

entourage, which the letter inferred

under the guise of too many words.

Is that fair?

_ KING ELIAS BOUCHARD II: _

If she simply  _ must  _ visit, my most trusted

servants must be informed of her 

planned arrival. Perhaps I will not yet

inform her Ladyship of their knowledge.

_ ALICE, A HUNTSWOMAN: _

I do not see how withholding that 

bare modicum of information helps in

any way, but I’ve no choice but 

to defer to your judgment.

_ KING ELIAS BOUCHARD II: _

Yes, that is quite correct.

_ ALICE, A HUNTSWOMAN: _

Then I am permitted to leave.

_ EXIT Alice, a Huntswoman, turning on her heel and marching out as quickly as she can.  _

_ King Elias Bouchard II is left in the room with Francis, an Attendant, who remains unnaturally still, as if fixed to the spot. They look as though they wish to speak, but their mouth will not move. _

_ End scene. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Act 2, Scene 3 will be uploaded on August 22!


	10. Act 2, Scene 4 - At Odd Angles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a Lady and her Scribe prepare to infiltrate the King’s Court, a Knight and his Lord muse on the propriety of court, and the spider’s dance binds them all together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWs for manipulation/gaslighting, light body horror (injury/broken bones)
> 
> Sorry for updating this a bit late!! And thank you to everyone who's stuck with us and is still reading along!! We love y'all's kudos and comments

[SCENE: On stage right, Sir Jonathan Sims stands before Lord Martin Blackwood, who is seated in a simple wooden chair in front of a wide, clear window in the estate’s ballroom. Outside the glass reflects the verdant scene of the courtyard garden, still mostly a plot of dirt with the barest hints of greenery peeking from the earth. Framing the glass on either side of Lord Blackwood’s head are ropes of ivy clinging to the window, fanning out behind him as fledgling wings.

On stage left, there is the drawing room of Lady Annabelle Cane. Most of the furniture has been moved against the back wall, obscuring a window of imported stained glass, and Lady Cane stands with yards of soft white silk draped over her arm, wearing a dancer’s dress that is much less elaborate than her usual attire, hair done into coils at the crown of her head to resemble roses. 

There is no separation between stage right and stage left; in the center of the stage, Lord Blackwood’s ballroom and Lady Cane’s drawing room fade into each other. The only difference is the lights; whereas Lord Blackwood’s dwelling is lit by the soft blue lights of a shaded hideaway, Lady Cane’s home is very dimly lit in reddish-pink tones.]

_Sir Jonathan Sims is looking to Lord Martin Blackwood with some displeasure. His Lordship is currently folding a letter, placing it back within its envelope._

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, frowning:_

My Lord, if you would allow my asking,

what slows your correspondence? 

Had that been any meager offer of

unwell wishes or empty chatter

you would have asked for my quill.

What slows your tongue when it be

an invitation that finds its way?

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, wearing a soft, somewhat nervous expression:_

My tongue is not so much slowed

as it is… unwilling. One’s own ballroom

can be quite thrilling, but a stranger’s hall,

flooded with Lords and Ladies alike,

makes for an intimidating beast. 

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS:_

Intimidating though it may be, my sword

can only extend so far. The dance hall

is your own battleground until grimmer

days arrive, and dancing Lords become

quick to trade lashing speeches.

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, releasing a single laugh:_

I see _you_ are quick to strike a

sympathetic nerve, my Knight.

Though I did not receive what many

might consider an education fit

for a Lord, the occasional dance or two

found its way in. 

It is not the motions, but often the partners--

or lack of partners, as the case may be--

that give such sweet gatherings a sour taste. 

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, huffing a bit:_

Such gatherings have no taste 

but that which you give it. Though

I suppose I mustn't speak much to’t

without projecting my own flavor;

and that flavor has never been 

for dance.

The movements I know best

are to the rhythm of fights that

have long ago tied my hands.

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, standing from his chair:_

Sir Jonathan, you know I am not

of the kind to bow to tradition, but

surely you are not telling me, within

the very walls of this ballroom, 

that you never learned a dance

fit for its floor? 

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, taking a little step back, eyebrows furrowing:_

If these were the walls of any other

Court in the whole of this country,

I might have known what might be

fit for their floors. This floor of yours

must beg the difference, the same as 

the absence of work you’ve ordained.

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, sounding a bit exasperated:_

The lack of company and hired hands

was never for lack of trying, Sir Jonathan.

Prior to--

_(gesturing to the ballroom)_

Before I entered this ornate scene 

before you, with its empty halls and 

barren walls--

This little… lycanthropic luxury--

_(crossing his arms)_

I rather enjoyed the occasional folk dance. 

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, smirking:_

Dances of the common folk are 

little more than follies in the ballroom,

yet their power and stated purpose

have more meat to them than all 

other Courts’ frivolity.

I know but one, but it is a dance

only to be used as the most dire

of medicines. I do not suppose

it’s one you’ve had to attempt. 

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, uncrossing his arms and tilting his head:_

You are correct in your assumption, my Knight--

Each dance serves its own purpose,

but I fear now that our medicinal resources

were lacking in more than one respect.

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, taking a step back, closer to centerstage:_

It very well may, especially since I have yet

to know whether my former Ladyship has 

sent any of her… favors, to you, my Lord. 

It is from Lady Cane that the remedy to 

those very venomous gifts originate.

Trust, she taught me in my training days. 

[The lights over stage right dim to a deep purple, obscuring Lord Blackwood until he is nothing but a silhouette. The lights directly above Sir Jonathan’s head tint violet, then pink, lighting his face in a way that makes him look younger than he actually is. He appears to be waiting with some apprehension for someone. The lights over stage left become brighter until Lady Cane’s drawing room is awash in a pink glow.] 

_ENTER Basira Hussain, a Philosopher, stage left._

_BASIRA, A PHILOSOPHER, apprehensively:_

My sincerest apologies for my candor,

My Lady, but that is quite the costume--

I have been privy to your Court for

quite some time, and yet I do not 

recognize it--is it a more recent design?

_LADY CANE, smiling widely as she approaches Basira:_

Not as such, dearest one! In fact,

it would be more accurate to say that

this is dress of traditional design,

albeit not tradition for this kingdom.

From Sicily does this gown hail, 

and from Sicily hails the weave of

this fine little yard of silk- I’ve gone

far too long without giving my favored

due recompense for all your little beauties!

_Lady Cane holds up the finely woven white silk, so delicate that it seems almost sheer, and drapes it over the headscarf already hiding her philosopher’s hair, humming in contemplation._

_LADY CANE:_

How many scarves would you consider

from this?

_BASIRA, A PHILOSOPHER, standing stiffly:_

This question stems not from 

a lack of appreciation, my Lady,

nor from an accusation of ingenuity,

but I must know: What is it that

inspires this newfound generosity? 

_LADY CANE, pouting a bit:_

Must there be an inspiration 

other than that I am inspired by 

want of looking at you, my sweet? 

_BASIRA, A PHILOSOPHER, still quite obviously tense:_

I suppose I was unaware of your…

Looking, Lady Cane.

_LADY CANE, sighing a bit as she pulls back after a moment of studying Basira’s face:_

That is fair and certain, philosopher,

though I had hoped you would play

along for the bit- pressing your Lady 

a touch further than looking, so that,

as though in scandal, I might say:

How now! How could you believe

in ulterior passion, doveling? 

And I might touch upon the true point

in just a moment. The scarf is a gift 

the way letters of summoning are.

_BASIRA, A PHILOSOPHER, relaxing slightly as she takes a step back from Lady Cane and smirks:_

I see: This ulterior motive of yours

was not one of passion itself, but

of guiding my hand into its illusory grip

such that, should I pull away, you

could dissolve its mirage?

_LADY CANE, still pouting a bit, although it appears to all be in good nature:_

Or else build the image should

you draw nearer beyond my expectations,

though of course the ulterior motive

of guiding and of games has long ago

been set for tailors such as ourselves! 

It is all in your hands, whichever way

you wish to weave our threads, though

I trust you recall who supplies your silk.

_BASIRA, A PHILOSOPHER, clearing her throat:_

Of course I have not forgotten--

My Ladyship’s presence is quite… 

all-encompassing, as it were.

_LADY CANE, smiling enigmatically:_

As expected from the Philosopher.

You daily bring me greater ease

in your sense of what ties us

beyond Ladyship and Scribe.

It is for that reason I have chosen you,

Basira Hussain, as my right hand for

this scouting expedition I plan, in the 

front lines of the Royal Court. Your sense

and your haste in meeting ends is to me

an invaluable resource and honor, 

when dressed in your prettiest words 

and prettiest scarves.

_A short pause as Basira looks contemplatively at Lady Cane._

_BASIRA, A PHILOSOPHER:_

Might I be informed of the means 

and the end?

_LADY CANE, smile widening:_

Why, you are my means, dear one.

Our end is to stir the first dredges of a fight

within the hearts of the King and his rotted

Court- for now, without aim, but with the aim

of fanning the flame so that when so directed

the result is an inferno.

I will go and work upon King and Magician

and feign that both have the chance at 

besting me in the sport of the mind.

You are to work upon those servants

under the King that he treats as invisible-

perhaps one that oversees the whole of

his banquets and public opinion, or perhaps

one that oversees his hunts and marshal plans-

but I leave the discretion to you.

_BASIRA, A PHILOSOPHER, aside:_

I cannot help but comment on the humor

of a scouting mission for which you employ 

not the King’s marshal--who is likely 

all too knowledgeable about the workings

of his Majesty’s Court--but a Philosopher.

_LADY CANE:_

Stir the heart of these servants against the King

if they be so inclined to see his downfall, or for

the King, should they be so inclined to have hands

within his juvenile plans. We are merely heralds

of a coming Mars.

_BASIRA, A PHILOSOPHER:_

And whose prayers are being answered so that

such a deity might strike down upon this Kingdom?

Or is the rolling storm less the result of prayer 

and more a call for rapture? I am not unaware 

of those names among us which 

brandish their violence high.

_LADY CANE:_

There were no prayers, for Mars is no God of mine.

‘Twas the form of many a letter, and although 

the words were all mine, they were dictated into

the lovely sweep of your hand. If calls be prayers

then you were High Priestess, and I but a mere

vagrant presenting you with my God’s divination.

_BASIRA, A PHILOSOPHER:_

I see… And at this very moment, this

Divine presentation is… 

_(pausing briefly to run her hands through the fabric around her shoulders before quirking an eyebrow at Lady Cane)_

a scarf.

_LADY CANE, laughing a bit:_

Oh, my Priestess, that is not presentation-

the scarf is an offering in a kinder vein away

from the sacrificial lamb. The divine presentation

is instead a dance, plucked from Italian shores,

that is said to be the remedy for poison.

It is my only grief that you are not the first

that I have given this to.

_BASIRA, A PHILOSOPHER, with a start:_

A dance? My Lady, I was raised with 

countless dances--though I must say, I have 

never quite favored them as others seem to--

but I have never been privy to one

which cures poisons.

_LADY CANE, smiling cruelly:_

It doesn’t. 

The idea is that, as the toxins roll through

the veins from the pinpricks of a spider’s 

bite, the quick steps and spin will detoxify

the blood, and you will be cured of ailment.

This is a lie the Sicilians have told themselves.

This is a lie I told someone, long ago, 

for I had worked ever so hard on weaving

the strings that bind him in Knighthood.

But the one thing I could not beat from him

was a bone deep fear, a weakness that

would break him down in my Court. I have

always wished to try the dance, with one

more deserving. 

_BASIRA, A PHILOSOPHER, aside:_

If my Lady has before woven such a tight

web of Knighthood, what should I believe

of my own curation?

_(to Lady Cane)_

I must admit, my Lady, that I do not

understand this desire of yours.

_(a brief pause, followed by a shallow bow)_

Should you wish it, though, I will not

hesitate to follow your teachings.

_LADY CANE, smiling as she bows:_

Your words fall upon me in the

sweetest of petalled arrangements.

We need not have music, for these

are steps best learned leisurely,

one footfall at a time, before being

given to tempo.

[The stage lights over Basira dim to a deep red as Lady Cane takes a step back, towards center stage, and Sir Jonathan moves to meet her, though he still faces Lord Blackwood.] 

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, raising his right arm, which is bent at the elbow, and crossing his left foot in front of his right:_

Apologies, my Lord, for I was only ever

taught to follow another’s steps, but as

someone with a fondness for this sort

of thing, I do not doubt you will swiftly

adopt the movements of the other role.

_(a brief pause, followed by a soft, somewhat embarrassed laugh)_

I must apologize twofold, for I have

yet to speak its name: 

_LADY CANE, raising her left arm, which is bent at the elbow, and crossing her right foot in front of her left:_

Look closely. This is the spider’s dance:

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS and LADY CANE, turning to face one another:_

The tarantella. 

[The lights over stage left dim to a deep dusky rose, obscuring Basira until she is nothing but a silhouette. Lady Cane steps underneath the spotlight of pinkened light, the threads woven into her hairstyle glowing like newly plucked vines. She looks to Sir Jonathan with mischief in her eye.]

_LADY CANE, raising her head up high:_

My Sir in the making, this dance,

I believe, becomes you well.

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, with a short laugh:_

My Lady, I fear the height of

your expectations to be much

taller than I am.

_LADY CANE, laughing brightly in turn:_

If that is the case, there is no

need for fear: my expectations 

are but a centimeter taller.

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, dryly, with a smile:_

Truly, my hope has risen anew

from its own ashes.

How would you direct its stature?

_LADY CANE, taking a step back, righting her own position:_

The first direction is for the feet,

which carry you daily with your 

quick-tongued woman you call

Grandmother. 

_(demonstrating a series of light footwork, stepping with her right foot forward for two counts, then two counts forward on her left, before turning counterclockwise to repeat the steps.)_

Just the same as the footwork

of swordplay, your steps are 

to fly to the beat.

_A series of soft scuffling sounds as Sir Jonathan attempts to copy Lady Cane’s movements, a serious expression on his face as he looks down at his feet._

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, under his breath:_

One, two.

Three, four.

Five, six.

Seven, eight.

_(aside)_

A spider’s dance of eight steps…

Fitting.

_Lady Cane looks over and, as Sir Jonathan looks away, a flash of annoyance crosses her face. It smooths back into a sweet smile in an instant._

_LADY CANE, clapping her hands shortly:_

A wonderfully quick study as always!

Though I suppose it is fitting,

for this dance may well save your life.

Does that alone not soothe the 

quickfire trembling of thine heart?

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, still staring resolutely at his own feet:_

My Lady, I do not believe eight seconds

of eight steps capable of curing thousands 

of seconds of fear from age eight onward,

though I do wish it so.

_LADY CANE, delicately sighing as she reaches for Sir Jonathan’s hands, holding them gently:_

It is all turning towards eight, is it not?

All we must do is wait for the moment

those thousands of minuscule seconds

turn up eights as well- then we’ll gather 

each number, turning them in our hands,

and transmute them into a salvation’s

infinity.

Fear not, when we have only just begun! 

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, clearing his throat:_

Right. 

_LADY CANE, looking down at Sir Jonathan through her eyelashes:_

Unless…. you feel that other company

might be more suited to dance with you?

Only speak, and I will search the whole

of my castle, my lands, this kingdom itself, 

and you will have the dancer that will chase

the venom of doubt from you.

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, shaking his head:_

Apologies, my Lady, for of course there are

none in this kingdom more suited to guide

my present self through the motions.

_Lady Cane smiles and squeezes Sir Jonathan’s hands. When she pulls away, she gestures to someone just out of the stage’s view, and a mandolin begins strumming a delicate, lively tune._

_LADY CANE, regaining her former position:_

Then I will have this dance, and you

will follow the gentling manipulations 

that my hands will tailor to you. 

After we step in time, we come together like so… 

_Another soft shuffling as Lady Cane motions for Sir Jonathan to face her. She moves his right arm to touch his hand against his left shoulder, left hip, and right hip, and then gestures for him to continue the motions, bouncing on her toes in time with the music and his movements for another eight seconds. Lady Cane then pulls Sir Jonathan towards her for two steps, and then guides him backwards two more steps so they face each other again._

_A pause in the music and their movements._

_LADY CANE, smiling cheekily:_

Pull your arm around my waist, Sir.

Of course, let us not forget ourselves

in the torrent of eights, that we may 

lose the sight of our own ranked states.

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, aside, as he awkwardly puts his arm around Lady Cane:_

I should wonder that this life of mine has

little else to lose. 

_(speaking to Lady Cane)_

Trust, my Lady, that my eyes are ever 

open to them.

_LADY CANE, smile taking on a wicked edge:_

Well learned, Sir- far better learned

than any of the too-numerous scholars

stalling within these walls. I am blessed

that you have fitted to this, in time.

_Lady Cane puts her own arm around Sir Jonathan’s waist in the opposite direction and leads them both into slowly spinning in a circle together, one arm raised. She motions over Sir Jonathan’s shoulder for the off-stage mandolin to begin playing again, and the music continues._

_LADY CANE:_

And after the clockwise motion, 

the we come apart once again 

from eight dancing limbs into four.

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS:_

Would my hope become yet twice 

as high as I am, were I to wish 

for the second half of this dance

to merely repeat the same steps?

_LADY CANE:_

That’s just the thing! It heartens,

to know this quick wit has chosen

the sword after all.

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, grumbling softly:_

Yes, well… Forgive me, my Lady,

but one appeal to a Knight’s choreography

is that one need not fear the comfort

of their companion, and instead need only 

note the composure of their competitor.

‘Tis easier to step in time with one’s partner

protected, at a safe distance.

_LADY CANE, smiling sweetly:_

Oh, but Sir Knight, what is a partner

if not a competitor of another form?

As you are well suited to violence,

I will make sure to be careful, 

that I not fall before the blade

of your disposition.

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS:_

My apologies for casting this sweet melody

in such a sobering light, your Ladyship.

_(a brief pause)_

Please, guide me through the remaining steps.

_LADY CANE, as though surprised:_

Oh? But Sir Jonathan, 

you have always been the lead.

_The music’s tempo increases as Lady Cane subtly guides the placement of Sir Jonathan’s hands to pull them apart and repeat the steps, only with Lady Cane’s instruction for Sir Jonathan to bounce in time with the second eight seconds while she moves her own hand to touch her left shoulder, left hip, and right hip. This time, when they come together, it looks as though Sir Jonathan is leading the pace of the spin together as Lady Cane’s hand presses heavily against his side._

_LADY CANE, delighted:_

See how you dance! It is all 

finery, with your lead- you are,

in truth, teacher and master 

in this role. I am but your most

humble of adherents.

_Sir Jonathan smiles and spins Lady Cane out toward stage left and the music swells slightly._

[As Sir Jonathan spins slightly toward stage right, and Lady Cane toward stage left, Lord Martin Blackwood becomes washed in blue light again, and Basira in pink.]

_An abrupt cut to the music as Lady Cane trips and falls forward and Sir Jonathan whips around to face her again. In the pinkish glow from stage left, faint wisps of something curled around Lady Cane’s wrists can be seen sprawled on the ground before her. Something else, just as faint, seems for a brief moment to extend upwards from her ankles. She is dwarfed by the stage around her, and appears frail._

[The lights on the left- and right-most ends of the stage switch completely off and Lord Blackwood and Basira are once again in shadow. The sprawling wisps around Lady Cane are no longer visible.]

_An extended period of complete silence as Sir Jonathan stands frozen, his right arm extended toward Lady Cane._

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, aside:_

Threads… For the briefest moment, 

I swear, I… My eyes must have…

_(stumbling over his words)_

Something in the light, maybe…

[A flickering of the overhead lights before they settle back on the same reddish-pink.]

_LADY CANE, beginning to tremble as her left arm bends back unnaturally with a crack:_

Why…?

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, taking cautious steps towards Lady Cane:_

Is your Ladyship alright?

_LADY CANE, shoulders hunching inward as she bows her head:_

Were we not dancing, Jonathan?

Were these steps not for your benefit,

to still the drum of your heart? Or…

No. ‘Twas I who played the fool.

Your heart beats only for war.

It was my mistake to forget.

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, stopping in place:_

My Lady, I meant only to humor,

never to harm. In truth, I still 

find dance to be unfavorable, but

trust that its end was not my intention.

_LADY CANE, head bowing lower:_

**You forget your place.**

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, now standing with his hands at his side:_

My Lady, please... I wish only to

remediate the situation.

_LADY CANE, the first of many tears falling:_

The most immediate remedy

is your departure.

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, eyes widening:_

Surely your Ladyship is aware 

that the passing of my Grandmother 

rendered your Court my only place 

of employ and refuge.

_A pause as Lady Cane remains silent._

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, taking another step towards her:_

As your Knight, _I_ am aware 

that it does not do to contradict 

my Lady’s wishes, but I must

repeat that I meant you no harm.

_LADY CANE, turning her tear-soaked face towards Sir Jonathan:_

You speak too prettily to be 

any Knight of mine. Clinging to

thine empty words when your

violence is proven- leave.

Quit my sight and be merry,

**for now you are truly a Knight.**

~~_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, frantic:_ ~~

_End scene._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOO BOY, Act 2, Scene 5 (Back in Upon Itself) was supposed to be uploaded on September 5, but life got in the way of things a bit and we probably won't upload it until the 23rd at the earliest! It's a wild one lads, and we promise the wait will pay off :-)


	11. Act 2, Scene 5 - Back in upon Itself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which all the world’s a stage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for canon-typical spiders and unreality

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, holding his tongue:_

_\--._

_A sharp cracking sound as he falls to his knees before Lady Cane. His head bows, hair falling into and obscuring his face. The look of fear in his eyes is hidden from the audience. Lady Cane’s arm is still broken as she stands, taking her position over Sir Jonathan Sims for a moment before turning away with disgust._

_LADY CANE, wiping the false tears from her cheeks:_

You are forsaken.

_EXIT Lady Cane._

[Lady Cane says no more and walks toward stage left, passing underneath the dimmed lights. The lights dim further and further as she advances, and soon she is engulfed in shadow. Sir Jonathan Sims is still seeped through with violet light.]

_The crack of bone rejoining from the darkness, partially supplemented by the gentle plucking of harp strings as the light on stage right brightens._

[A blue-green tint seeps towards centerstage as Lord Martin Blackwood approaches from stage right, the light glittering off flecks of silver woven into the fur ruff of his coat.]

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, hesitantly reaching his hand out toward Sir Jonathan Sims:_

My Knight?

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, slowly raising his head once more:_

… My Lord. There is

no one else here.

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD:_

Was your gaze expecting someone?

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS:_

I… don’t know.

_A pause as Lord Martin Blackwood takes two steps toward Sir Jonathan Sims, his hand still outstretched. After a moment’s hesitation, he rests his hand lightly on Sir Jonathan Sims’ shoulder._

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD:_

If you do not wish me privy to 

your current troubles, Sir Jonathan,

might I at least provide a distraction?

_Another pause as Sir Jonathan turns his head, looking to the hand on his shoulder. Lord Martin Blackwood has warm hands. Sir Jonathan reaches a hand up after a moment of hesitation and rests it over Lord Blackwood’s._

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, squeezing the hand on his shoulder:_

You might, I suspect, do

whatever you like with me

and I would thank you for it.

_An audible gulp from Lord Martin Blackwood as he takes their joined hands from Sir Jonathan’s shoulder, and steps around Sir Jonathan to face him. He glances around the ballroom dejectedly until his eyes land on the ivy winding along the far wall. His eyes light up, and he pulls Sir Jonathan to stand in front of it._

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, holding his and Sir Jonathan’s hands up:_

Regrettably, we are missing an audience 

which, under the most ideal of circumstances,

would flourish before and around us. 

For this dance is meant not for a castle,

but for a natural clearing.

_(looking at Sir Jonathan as he bows slightly)_

I wish nothing less than to propose something 

you would not look favorably upon, 

but will my Knight allow me to lead him in

one of my favorites?

_There is a pause as Sir Jonathan looks at their joined hands with trepidation. He would look to Lord Martin, but feels as though it might make him act too quickly. Allow nerves to get the best of him._

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, taking a tentative step closer:_

Why, my Lordship, do you bow to me?

I would follow your lead even if I did not

allow this- but, trust, that I will… if you 

aren’t worried I will misstep? Or if you

aren’t worried that my hand will be too

quick to anger, for war is… 

_A pause. Sir Jonathan Sims’ mouth opens and closes, but he cannot finish the thought._

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS:_

War, is… all… 

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, softly:_

Sir Jonathan… I bow to you, and shall

continue in this same way for as long 

as you are my Knight and most trusted

man, for none who have come to serve 

in this manor as you do have deserved

it as you do.

_(almost in a whisper)_

I pray that you will, in time,

let yourself deserve it.

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, just as softly, after a moment of hesitation:_

I am not allowed to permit myself,

so that will be difficult, regardless of

the infinity we appear to have.

But if you permit me, that will be enough,

and I will follow.

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, with a soft sigh:_

Sir Jonathan, I wish only to offer my hand

in this dance, and I care only that you truly

desire to accept it. I will neither force

nor permit any one choice.

_(after a pause)_

Please… As you vowed to serve myself

and my house with truth on your tongue,

and to hold yourself and your own life

as close to your chest as myself and mine…

What is it that you _want?_

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS:_

I am… not supposed to want. It is

my place to carry the want of others.

This is all I am allowed.

_Despite his words, he tightens his hold on Lord Martin Blackwood’s hand._

_A pause as Lord Martin Blackwood places his other hand over Sir Jonathan’s and squeezes lightly before resting it back at his side._

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, softly, as his gaze flickers between Sir Jonathan’s eyes:_

I shall outline my own wants, then,

as we begin.

_(turning their hands over so that his rests under Sir Jonathan’s)_

Should any one settle heavier than

the rest, simply turn our hands back

and I shall carry it again.

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, biting his lip for a moment before forcing himself to relax:_

And if our wants align, alike in

shape or make, then I doubt that

it will ever be a burden to carry.

It is only lightness.

_A moment of hesitation from Lord Martin Blackwood before he moves his hand with Sir Jonathan’s so they are clasped off to the side, at chest level._

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, smiling:_

Let us hold them here, then,

and the weight will remain even.

_Two dampened clicks as Lord Martin Blackwood steps back from Sir Jonathan and bows again, still smiling._

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, glancing at the ivy-covered windows:_

Now, my Knight, this particular dance

of course has rather regulated scenery,

which I find myself fortunate enough to favor, 

but I have yet to describe it to you.

_(with a little glint in his eye as he stands to face Sir Jonathan again)_

Aside from the natural setting,

which is a proper tradition and 

must be treated accordingly...

_(gently spinning Sir Jonathan out)_

It lacks any rules at all.

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, surprised, but following the flow of Lord Martin Blackwood’s hand:_

And how, pray tell, is anyone to practice

when there are no precedents for the 

rhythm? If such a thing, Lordship, can be

called a dance, and not mere pacing. 

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, with a small laugh as he spins Sir Jonathan back in:_

One practices this dance not by

following a rhythm, Sir Jonathan,

but by finding it. It cares less for 

itself than it does the dancers. 

_SIR JONATHAN, taking a hesitant step closer and pulling Lord Martin Blackwood in:_

And who cares for pitiful dancers, then,

swept away by what can barely be

called sport? You mustn’t call upon

my care, for it is nettle which grows

where the lack of mettle stagnates.

_(a pause as Sir Jonathan falls into step with Lord Martin Blackwood)_

I suppose, then, that your Lordship

will hold on for the both of us.

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD:_

Trust, my Knight, that my grip

shall not falter.

_(a longer, contemplative pause as he spins Sir Jonathan out)_

Though you believe your current

compassions to be mere nettle,

I must assume they once carried 

brighter blooms.

_(pulling Sir Jonathan back in)_

Should such an assumption be true,

surely a garden once cultivated them.

_Sir Jonathan raises his other hand to rest at Lord Martin Blackwood’s side so as to not be spun and increase how dizzy he’s feeling. He doesn’t answer for a long moment, keeping in time with the tempo Lord Martin Blackwood has set._

_SIR JONATHAN, peeking up at Lord Martin through his eyelashes:_

Perhaps cultivation is a far more patient

vein than the shears that had given my shape.

My compassion blooms in whichever hue

you see best fit- though, and this is strange

even to myself- I offer to change readily.

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, resting his free hand on Sir Jonathan’s shoulder:_

My Knight, I wish for neither the tools

with which to reshape them, nor the paints

with which to change their lovely hue.

I desire only to know them… to give

their roots a proper stronghold.

_Sir Jonathan doesn’t speak for a moment. He is, momentarily, dazzled by the way the lights above dance over Lord Martin Blackwood’s shoulders; over the gentle curve of his jaw; his eyes._

_SIR JONATHAN, pulling himself into the moment:_

There is little to know of me, beyond

this role that I was created for. I could

scarcely believe a time where I believed 

I was meant for anything different-

I cannot imagine the world beyond this.

_(A pause. Sir Jonathan’s eyes drift to their feet, gently stepping left, then right, then back.)_

… Until now.

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD:_

What of this other world has your

imagination brought before

your eyes?

_SIR JONATHAN:_

None that can be spoken outside

of folklore; the fantasy imaginings

of childhood. I have grown too old

to be entertaining such worlds, but...

_A pause as Lord Martin Blackwood unclasps their hands and puts his hand on Sir Jonathan’s waist. He pulls Sir Jonathan slightly closer and guides him so that they start slowly swaying and spinning together._

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD:_

What is the use of a castle ballroom with

ivy-ridden stained glass if not for

entertaining folklore?

_SIR JONATHAN, giving a small, cheeky smile:_

For entertaining folk, I imagine.

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, with a laugh:_

Ah yes, for the nobles who flock here 

regularly and in abundance. What a 

Lord am I to forget such things.

_(after a moment of false consideration)_

What do you think, Jonathan--

Shall I send out a search party

for additional musicians?

_JONATHAN, flatly:_

If you do so, we’d have to stop 

this dance-- we may scare away

stray musicians of real sensibility.

But for now… this is enough.

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD:_

And what a shame it would be

to drive away sensibility. 

_(taking Jonathan’s hand and spinning him out quickly)_

I wouldn’t dare it.

_JONATHAN, pulling Lord Martin along with him sharply:_

And yet I feel the pull towards more

practical pastures with which matters

of sensibility may take root-- the Lord

Martin has many an element that would

breeze past such locales.

_A surprised laugh from Lord Martin at being pulled along._

_LORD MARTIN, placing his hand back on Jonathan’s shoulder:_

‘Tis a shame that a light breeze

cannot give a name to plants’ roots,

but it can surely dance with the leaves.

_JONATHAN:_

The dance needs end sometime,

but I see no reason to hasten 

the result. Not at the present, 

at least, when it seems this is

the most I have seen my Lord

move in the sun.

_LORD MARTIN, moving his other hand from where it holds Jonathan’s and placing it on Jonathan’s shoulder:_

This is, at present, the warmest

the sun has ever felt.

_They dance._

[SCENE ?: The dance continues, and for a few long, blissful moments, Jonathan and Lord Martin are oblivious to all else, dancing in a rather ahistorical fashion similar to a waltz, but not quite. Behind them, as they slowly sway to music only they can hear, the spotlight overhead grows in intensity, washing away the backdrop’s fake ivy-encrusted window and the light of the “sun.” Lord Martin pulls away just enough to attempt to twirl Jonathan again, and as Jonathan looks behind his dance partner, he finds the window, the sunlight, gone. Jonathan’s eyes widen. He misses a step.]

_JONATHAN, somewhat alarmed:_

The sun that was just shining here, as 

warm as all summer’s temptations… 

where

is it?

_LORD MARTIN, helping Jonathan regain his footing:_

I fear your question escapes me, for 

I still feel its warmth gracing my own skin.

_(giving him a puzzled look)_

What troubles you, my Knight?

_JONATHAN, eyes looking behind Lord Martin to the blankness that constitutes the wall, searching:_

I looked away from you for

only a moment, and the sun itself

has vanished. There is no more trace,

no window to peek through, no sky 

from which it might be hung. There is

nothing, save ourselves.

_Another puzzled look from Lord Martin as he turns to follow Jonathan’s gaze._

[SCENE ?: There is a brief second of light from behind the blank backdrop, and a shadow of the previous setting flashes across the canvas just as Lord Martin turns to face it.]

_LORD MARTIN, turning back to Sir Jonathan, eyes searching his face:_

Are you well? 

I fear I do not see the same blankness.

_JONATHAN, jerking his hands away from Martin as he flinches back:_

What do you mean you aren’t able to see?

It’s embedded into the back

of the very world we are in--

The sun is gone! You can’t-

I- how can you still see something that isn’t there?”

_A long pause as Lord Martin stares at Jonathan with a blank, almost tranced look, before shaking his head._

_LORD MARTIN, reaching hesitantly for Jonathan’s hand:_

My dear Knight, I still see it because 

it never left. Celestial wonders cannot just… 

disappear.

_JONATHAN, shaking his head as he steps away from Martin’s hold. He wishes he didn’t have to move away from that warmth.:_

“You don’t understand- it shouldn’t be possible, but it happened anyway, that--

why can’t you see i-

_Sir Jonathan takes a breath as though attempting to calm himself. It must have been a trick of the light. The sun cannot disappear._

_SIR JONATHAN:_

I fear that there is something

blighted that crosses my sight,

as the sun is blighted from the 

cover of glass. Trust, why is it

difficult to think that the absence 

of all

should swallow the sun? 

_Yet Sir Jonathan continues to look through Lord Martin Blackwood, where the window is hidden in shadow by the bright overhead light of_

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS:_

Yes, this can’t be… anything more or less.

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, still searching Sir Jonathan’s face for something and trying one last time to reach for his hand:_

Come with me, my Knight _\--please--_

and rest as you are able. 

I fear the effects of whatever such

affliction this may be, should it remain

untreated. 

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS, ignoring how much better he would feel if he allowed his Lordship to comfort him:_

I understand, and it is in every

single one of my deepest apologies.

Lord Blackwood, just a moment alone.

Please- until I get my bearings

and can again tell that the sun will remain.

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, letting his hand fall back at his side and stepping back:_

Of course--I will always grant you

whatever you require, but…

Will you be safe still?

_SIR JONATHAN SIMS:_

I will be. If nothing else, know

that it is my role to be safe

so that I may return to your side.

_Sir Jonathan Sims turns to EXIT, but hesitates. He does not exit the stage. The lights overhead dim until he is left in darkness, and none see the departure of Lord Martin Blackwood. Even in the darkness of a stage unlit, Jonathan Sims speaks, voice emanating from downstage._

_JONATHAN:_

It was by choice that I came upon this night,

as much choice as the fall of dusk allows 

for sight already cast from blight.

I press on.

[SCENE: The lights suddenly come on again, shining a dim violet over the stage. Despite Sir Jonathan having been close to the audience mere moments before, he now stands on a loft that extends from stage left, with a door of dingy, yellow-painted wood in front of him. There is a set of ten wooden steps extending from the precipice and onto the stage below. The lights from above barely reach the stage floor, and in the space just beyond the violet hue, there is a soft, almost whispering sound.] 

_JONATHAN, cautiously placing his ear against the door:_

Unless memory fails me here, 

I do not believe the door to my Lordship’s

ballroom has ever resembled 

the Springtime sun

as it does now.

Perhaps it is just the case that

it has escaped my eye, for 

my dear Lord is rather more inclined

to occupy his garden.

I have spent little time in this room

before tonight.

Should it instead be the case that

I have arrived at a new exit for

the same room, I am inclined

to wonder at the occupants

of the next room over.

_After some hesitation, there are two soft knocks from Jonathan, a moment of waiting silence, and then a click as he opens the door. The whispering sound from before is slightly louder._

_JONATHAN, with a soft laugh:_

Ah of course, my mistake--

It seems I should wonder instead

at the next room under.

Were I a smarter man,

I might turn back, but…

Curiosity is quite a fickle thing.

[The lights above Jonathan get slightly brighter when his foot touches the first stair.]

_Jonathan looks for the briefest moment like he might flinch away from the step when the light changes--like his gaze might flicker upward from his feet, toward the ceiling. Instead, he takes another step._

[With each new step that Jonathan takes, the violet light follows him and gets slightly brighter. Each step behind him dims in succession, such that as he nears the bottom of the staircase, the topmost step is almost entirely shrouded in darkness while the step immediately behind him is only slightly dimmer than the one his foot is currently on.]

_JONATHAN, glancing behind him:_

Were I a braver man, 

I might be less tempted 

to retreat into the familiar

which now lies in darkness.

Yet still more powerful than

that longing for the known is

that terror that holds me fast

and snaps the tender spots

where Achilles bore his love.

I have to know, lest the thought

of things left unseen take these

eyes of mine, cursed as they are,

before I know whose jaws the 

afeared weapons cling to.

_Sir Jonathan Sims finally steps off of the final step and looks around himself, brow furrowing as he catches the sight of something scuttling into the dark. His trembling lips part, tongue darting out to wet them as he turns his head toward stage right._

[The lights overhead brighten in intensity and saturation, bathing the far reaches of the stage in bright violet that washes out Jonathan’s dark skin in an almost neon glow.]

_Sir Jonathan Sims blinks rapidly, raising a hand over his eyes as the flash of deep color flushes over everything, illuminating the once dim room with such a luminosity that it is nearly blinding. As Jonathan’s eyes adjust, he looks to the rotted out floorboards by his boot and freezes, every single muscle sticking in place. Slowly creeping along the floor is a hairy spider as large as Jonathan’s_ hand, the oversaturation of lights overhead rendering it impossible to tell where one bristle of hair ends and the next begins, leaving a solid black mass of spider.

Jonathan’s head jerks up as he takes a step back and sees, moving over every available surface in the room, countless creeping, crawling spiders. Some hang languidly in the backlit air on invisible threads, suspended around Jonathan like snow that never stops falling in a painting. Still others join the arachnid slowly trying to make its journey over the tip of Jon’s boot, a conglomeration of ambling limbs that rotate about whatever grotesque approximation of a joint that spider’s legs boasted. The floor of the room is less wood and more beast, segmented limbs and a million beady eyes staring right at Jon. 

Hell is many-legged and poisonous, and Jon is standing in the center of it.

The only reason he doesn’t scream is that he’s afraid that the second his mouth opens, one of the damnable little monsters will seize the opportunity to colonize his innards. There is nothing else for them to invade in a room as desolate as this. 

What a terror, to feel this observed in a humanless and otherwise-featureless room. 

Jon turns to look behind him and finds that he has lost all trust for the dark staircase that, only a moment ago, felt as comforting and familiar as the castle beyond it. Trust aside, he still considers leaving again, but the fear that this floor might move with him as he steps onto the next turns his nerves into a thin, stiff wire. He wonders if, were the wire outside instead of in, someone stronger than he is might be able to move him forward. He briefly considers praying for it, but he is not a praying man.

His face turns cold as he remembers exactly whose castle cellar he is standing in. 

_ENTER Lord Martin Blackwood._

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD:_

Jonathan? 

“Martin,” Jon says faintly. He falls silent again as the world around him begins to dim. _Sir Jonathan Sims collects himself and_ Jon faints.

When Jon next opens his eyes, it is a great deal less bright, violet, and very much not full of spiders. 

He stares up at the fabric canopy for a long moment, trying to pull together some semblance of coherent thought as he mentally walks back over how he got here. One moment, he was walking down the wooden stairs, into a damp underground room, and the next, he was in a room filled to the brim with hellspawn. The moment after that, he’d fainted. Directly in the room full of spiders.

Jon shoots up from the bed and pats himself, searching for any trace of little feet pattering over his skin or spiders hiding somewhere in his clothes. There’s nothing. It’s just himself and his skin, free of tiny demons, lying in a bed he does not recognize.

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, hurrying to Jon’s bedside:_

My Knight?

_(a pause as he lays the back of his hand on Jon’s forehead)_

How are you feeling?

Jon blinks heavily, looking up at Martin with more than a little confusion. There’s something to the tone of Martin’s voice that feels… off. It feels off in a way he can’t describe. 

“My Lord,” Jon says and pauses, raising a hand to his throat. He is caught off guard by how strange it feels to say that, though it’s just a continuation of doing what he’s been expected to do this entire time. He tries again, tries to make Martin’s title sound less alien in his mouth, “My Lord- I- I feel… fine? For the most part.” He scowls, “As fine as I can be after finding- whatever in Heaven’s name you have down there! What the hell was that?!”

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, somewhat taken aback and flushing slightly:_

Have I not told you about my…

Apologies, my Knight, for I fear

I am unsure of how one might 

describe them…

Bittersweet presents, perhaps,

is as fitting a phrase as any.

I feared they might get lonely,

so I gave them a home.

“You were scared. That spiders would get lonely.” Jon asks incredulously, “So you decided to, what, stock as many as could fit in a room? You don’t see anything off about that at all whatsoever?”

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, with a smile:_

Spiders build societies grander

than ours, Jonathan.

Jon takes a moment to process this statement because it is pure nonsense. “My Lord. They’re spiders. Spiders- spiders do not have the foresight or critical thinking or,” He shudders, _“humanity_ to create anything, much less a _society-_ what are you even talking about?”

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, fully laughing:_

Does my dear Knight truly believe that,

after finding an unfamiliar door in a manor

which is not his and descending a dark stairway,

alone, into a dark cellar in a manor which is not his,

and possessing such a strong fear of _spiders_

that he fainted onto the floor, _into the spiders,_

he possesses greater foresight and

critical thinking skills than the inhabitants

of that cellar?

_(with a gleam in his eye)_

Do you fancy yourself, in this present moment,

able to rebuild a community from the ground up?

_(somewhat quieter, but still with a laugh after a brief pause)_

Perhaps from the trees down, given

the subject matter.

“Well- you-” Jon splutters for a moment, pulling the blanket closer to himself self-consciously, “That is so far removed from this that it’s in another town entirely. Whether or not I had an option to faint anywhere that wasn’t into the spiders is beside the point. That doesn’t change the fact that you just have a room full of spiders! For no reason!” He quickly jabs a finger in Martin’s direction, “And worrying that they’ll be ‘lonely’ is not a reason.”

_A brief pause as Lord Martin Blackwood looks away from Jon and wrings his hands together._

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, looking down at his hands:_

I suppose one could say they were

a gift.

I believe my benefactor intended them

to be a rather morbid source of protection...

_(a brief pause)_

T’was meant less to protect me _in_ life

than to protect me from it.

Jon gapes at Martin, his stomach slowly sinking. The previous lightness of the moment is gone. Even if the strange glow in the room had made it difficult to make out, in hindsight, Jon had recognized the kind of spiders that populated the room. They were poisonous. Not only were they poisonous, but they were a breed that ordinarily could only be found in the East- and the only noblewoman to have numerous enough connections to the Silk Road was Annabelle Cane.

“Good Lord,” Jon says faintly, unsure of which Lord he’s invoking, “how aren’t you dead?”

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, furrowing his eyebrows as he looks back up at Jon:_

None has yet tried to kill me.

When one actually gives them

the chance, they really are

quite gentle, dear Jonathan.

“Gentle-?” Jon sits up more fully, a few locks of hair falling out of its ribbon from the motion, “M- _My Lord,_ do you know how many she’s killed that way? Sending spiders sealed in her letters? You would have been the sixth!” He lets out a breath. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

_Stuttering, worried noises from Lord Martin Blackwood as he rests a hand on Jon’s shoulder to try and keep him from moving too much._

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, in a somewhat breathless aside as he scans Jon’s facial expression:_

My Knight truly appears far too regal

for a man who, moments ago, collapsed

in a fit of arachnophobia.

_(to Jon)_

My Knight, I knew neither that the origin

of these creatures was ones worth sharing,

nor how I might inform you of it, were I

so inclined.

Jon flushes, wholly taken aback by Martin’s wanton admittance at finding- at finding Jon _regal._ This, however, does not stop him from being rightfully insulted. “You didn’t find anything strange about random spiders being sent in not one, but presumably multiple letters aiming to end your life?” Jon frowns, “Regardless of my arachnophobia and _regardless_ of if I look- regal, good Lord, what kind of statement even is that?- that’s the sort of oddity that I am well equipped to handle, thank you,”

_A long moment of silence as Lord Martin Blackwood stares at Jon, his hand still on Jon’s shoulder, and flushes a deep red._

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD:_

Jonathan, how did you… 

How did you hear my words about 

your arachnophobia, and my…

_(a moment of hesitation as he clears his throat and flushes deeper)_

my other comment?

“I-” Jon’s brow furrows as he looks at Martin, uncomprehending. “Because you said them out loud? How else would I hear them?”

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, quietly:_

I most certainly did not.

_(louder, after a brief moment of sulking)_

In sincerity, I must apologize, my Knight,

for you once swore your life,

your work, and your health to

the protection of this manor, and

I to take you as my most trusted man, and

I fear there is little use or meaning

in an uneven promise.

“It’s hardly uneven though, is it?” Jon says, somewhat more subdued. “I’m here to protect you as well, and in return, things have been easy, here. Far easier than my time under Lady Cane, certainly, and I would guess far easier than in most other courts.”

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, removing his hand from Jon’s shoulder and moving to take his hand:_

That I will not disagree with, 

for your time here has been easier

on my own spirit than the time of

many others, though I will take 

no offense should you tell me that

your sense of ease has since

thinned under the weight of

such a fear harbored here.

“No. I’m… still at ease,” Jon says, almost unthinkingly. He pauses, studying how Martin’s hand is larger than his own. “Working underneath Lady Cane was harder in that respect as well. In fear. I… have no such worries, here.”

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, looking down at Jon’s hand in his:_

As she was the source of these… gifts…

I suppose I should not be surprised.

“Don’t misunderstand- I was afraid of spiders even _before_ I ever knew her,” Jon says, somewhat warningly. No matter what she’d done, or how they parted, she had given him and his grandmother someplace to go. No matter what she’d needed of him, it had helped his Nan live comfortably, and that was all he could ask for. “I just… was expected to overcome that fear, there. It didn’t work out, and now I’m here.”

_A minute of quiet as Lord Martin Blackwood considers something. He clears his throat and moves out of his chair to kneel by Jon’s bedside, still holding Jon’s hand in his own._

_LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD:_

If you wish, my Knight, I vow to serve

you, as an inhabitant of this foundation,

with my very breath and the truth that 

it pulls forth from my tongue.

Whatever will you have inspired in me--

in this place--I wish only to deploy in service 

of your health and with great care, should

my heart never collapse with them.

You need not overcome a fear--

nor fear buckling under its weight--

when you let me carry it with you

and protect you from it.

Jon peers up at Martin, stunned into quiet as he hears the vows that Martin had given him before regifted, offering him more than he’s been offered. There are a thousand objections on the tip of his tongue: the fact that their oath was, by its nature, always meant to be an imbalance; the fact that if there were witnesses to this ceremony, rumor would hang even more heavily around Martin; that Jon should have surrendered the comfort of this bed and risen to take care of his Lordship, as he’d _vowed_ to do.

But Martin looks down at Jon, with the gentle light of the room lighting up the halo of curls that crown his head, and he seems so sincere that Jon can hardly breathe. There is no room for judgment in his gaze. There is just the present moment where Jon has to face what he’s being offered.

There are very few things Jonathan Sims has ever been allowed. Those things are as follows: Enough food to eat, but never to gorge; enough wine to stifle thirst, but never to reap other rewards; air to breathe. All else is, by its nature, frivolous. Jon is not a thing meant to be gentled, and he is not a thing meant to lay upon an altar and have offerings laid at his feet. Wanting is a dangerous thing, and so is this simple temptation of being bowed to all over again.

But Martin keeps offering. And Jon’s starting to find that he wants.

It’s a bad idea to pull on Martin’s hand and guide him down, closer to where he can reach. It’s an equally bad idea to continue entertaining this, to lay his hand on Martin’s cheek and pull him closer. What was it Martin had said? 

_It is in greatest acceptance of your vow…_

These are all terrible decisions that Jon is participating in. The words in his mouth feel heavy even though his heart is threatening to slip through his ribs and flutter out, and even then, Jon can’t bring himself to take. This has never been about his wanting to take- simply his being allowed to keep what has always been given. He could never bring himself to possess something as precious as this.

It feels so remarkably like Jon has always known Martin, and he doesn’t know why.

Jon pulls Martin down into a kiss and it’s as warm as it was the first time. He doesn’t say that he takes Martin, because Martin has already taken him in- but he thinks that maybe, if he holds him close enough, Martin will feel it anyway.

_End of Act 2._

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because of how delayed this scene was, and how much longer each one is taking to write, we've decided to switch our release schedule to every two weeks! Hope y'all liked this one, though :) It was truly An Experience to write it
> 
> The next scene will be released on October 10!


	12. Timtermission 1: In the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Timothy, the Fool, remembers that he has a brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWs for memory loss, gaslighting

[SETTING: The castle walls on stage rotate clockwise 180-degrees and we are back in a tavern in the Kingdom of Bouchire, which is just now settling after a small period of unease. The closer it grows to evening, the more quiet permeates the air, until the sounds of children toddling after mothers and workers returning home for the day are replaced by the gentle patter of small groups of friends and the occasional drunkard in an unfortunate state just a little too early into the evening. On one side of the tavern, there is the sound of three drunkards arguing sloppily with a rather stern-looking man.

Stage right there sits Melanie King at a bar of roughly cut wood, wearing a nobleman’s garb of breeches and a tunic garnished with silver; a cloak is laid over her lap and her eyes are hidden behind a silken blindfold. There are several glasses of ale in front of her. She hasn’t touched a single one but the Bartender has been mechanically placing them in front of her.] 

Melanie isn’t in the mood to get into an argument over something she’s at least somewhat sure he can’t even help at the moment. 

She turns in her seat to face the rest of the bar, listening. Besides Melanie, the only ones moving are three drunkards and a stern-sounding man that she feels she might have met before, but doesn’t remember off the top of her head. The remaining “patrons” on the stage are locked in eerie stillness, if they are even there at all. Georgie mentioned that there were about ten others before she'd gone off to look for a smithy, but in all this time that Melanie had sat at the bar and listened, no one besides the aforementioned quartet had uttered a single word. There isn't even the sound of the odd chair scraping against wood or bated breath. 

Melanie considers asking about food but decides against it. It’s probably shit anyway. Prop food always is.

_ENTER Timothy, the Fool, jingling as he approaches the bar and turns to face its inhabitants._

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, removing his hat:_

Lo, dearest patrons!

The patrons remain silent and unmoving. The drunkards are still blathering on about fathers or something that Melanie is only half listening to. Melanie waits for a few moments to see if any of the theoretical people around them will move- the bartender would be a good choice, probably, since he's at least demonstrably there- but none do.

Sighing, Melanie figures that’s as much a cue as any. She waves in the direction of the bells, saying, “Don’t think they can hear you.” 

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, turning to face Melanie:_

How unjust their preoccupations are

on this night! This poor and weary traveler 

desires nothing but a solid brew and a bite

to eat, and he instead finds nothing but

empty ears before him.

“‘Empty ears’ is putting it mildly,” Melanie is fairly certain there’s nothing behind most of the patrons’ eyes either. Instead of mentioning this she says, “If it’s brew you want, I’ve got plenty right here- damn bartender won’t stop trying to get me bladdered.”

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, expression brightening noticeably as he pulls a chair out from the opposite side of this stranger’s table and sits down, laying his hat on the floor next to his foot:_

Never have I met a kinder stranger.

_(picking up the stein closest to him and taking a swig)_

Does this hero-in-waiting 

have a name?

“Yeah, I’ve got one,” Hero in waiting. Funny. These flowery epithets get more grandiose by the line. “The name’s Melanie King. I’m here to chase ghosts. What’s got you blowing in?”

_A long pause as Timothy takes another drink and considers his answer._

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL:_

I regret that my journey is not quite 

thrilling enough to include ghost chasing. 

I have merely been tasked with…

new employment, as it were.

_(aside)_

I suppose I am likely chasing after

something, though I find that my tongue

struggles to articulate the what

and why of it.

So it’s one of those nights then. There’s being obtuse and hard to understand in regular verse (if she can even define it like that), but being dodgy even when it’s time for the internal monologue to roll in... Pursing her lips slightly, Melanie says, “If you’re chasing after something, say whatever you think it might be out loud. I might be able to help you figure out what to call it.” 

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, flushing:_

I…

_(shaking his head)_

_What?_

“You’re having trouble articulating what you might be chasing?” Melanie says,somewhat impatiently as she reaches for one of the kegs, feeling along the grainy wood to find a handle. There’s a fifty percent chance it’s actually alcohol- the other fifty says it’s most likely just water. She hopes it’s at least cold water. Or good booze. “You’re not thinking all that quietly.”

_Another pause as Timothy blinks at Melanie King. He opens his mouth once or twice, and closes it again each time without saying anything._

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, leaning in:_

Pardon me, miss, but…

_(glancing around the room and speaking quietly)_

Do you fancy yourself an Oracle?

“I don’t fancy much of anything, no,” Melanie tries to hide a grimace at the taste of lukewarm, metallic water. Wonderful. “Oracle’s a bit too fancy for my tastes- maybe just a mind reader? Or maybe more of a psychic.”

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, letting out a somewhat hysterical laugh and leaning back:_

Right, of course, _just_ a mind reader...

_(shaking his head and taking another swig)_

Might the sweet and warning Pythia 

have any announcements of righteous,

royal retribution?

“Pythia hasn’t a thing to do with it. Like I said,” Melanie says, and if she had eyes to roll, she would be rolling them, “I’m not an Oracle. I just sense things others can’t- like how many ghosts seem to be gathering around the castle in town.”

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, after a moment of hesitation:_

And the why of it?

“There’s no why, honestly,” Melanie shrugs, “Me and my Knight more or less are just going around helping people, I guess. They’re not really dangerous per se, but if you get someone unstable enough… Well. You know.”

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, aside:_

Arriving on horseback to warn of

incoming truths, and yet this Melanie King

insists she is other than an Oracle.

_(to Melanie King)_

Your Knight?

“Yeah, my Knight. Her name’s Georgie? She’s off at the smithy right now.” She frowns a bit, “You can just call me ‘Melanie’, you know. Never did get why you lot get so caught up on titles, even in your heads…” Though maybe that isn’t fully true for Melanie- after all, she had been part of this “lot” not that long ago.

_Silence from Timothy as he considers her comments and takes a couple more drinks. He opens his mouth several times, and closes it again each time when he remembers that she can read his mind. After finishing off his first stein of ale and grabbing a second, he resolutely holds it close to his chest, resting his chin on the rim of the glass, and remains silent._

“....?” Melanie’s eyebrows rise when she can no longer hear her apparent companion speak. He’s certainly still there, because he just moved one of the steins of pretend ale, and he’s still breathing. And, of course, the stern-sounding loser off to the side of them is seeming a little freaked out by the drunkards. There isn’t as much noise to hide behind.

Still, it’s interesting. Only Georgie’s ever really stopped making asides. It bears some experimenting with. She asks, “Hey, traveler- do you think there’s anything strange about the bartender?”

_A moment of genuine contemplation from Timothy._

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, in hushed tones:_

His tongue seems the least restless

of all his muscles, though it may well be

his ears which serve him better in

a place like this.

_(a pause as he takes a swig)_

One cannot fault a man for preferring

to listen, I suppose.

“Mm, guess not. Some people are like that,” Melanie says, propping her cheek in a hand as she turns her face in the direction of Tim’s voice, “But what if I told you that he hasn’t said a word to me and that I never actually asked for any of this alcohol? I just sat down here and he started setting mugs down. I’d almost say it’d be like mind reading, if I actually had wanted any. But I didn’t.”

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, after a moment of watching the bartender work:_

This _is_ the man’s profession, is it not?

“Yeah- but that seems to be about it,” Melanie leans closer conspiratorially, “It doesn’t look like he’ll do anything _except_ his job. It’s as though being a “bartender” is the only thing to ‘im.”

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL:_

Well, he…

_Another quiet moment as Timothy turns to look more fully at the bartender, who is cleaning up empty glasses at other tables._

[As Timothy turns, the lights in the tavern dim until only a single spotlight is left over the bartender. It follows him as he maneuvers smoothly between the tables and other patrons to clean their messes and give them new steins of ale. After about fifteen seconds of this, the lights start to come up again, but only in front of the bartender. Every time a portion of the stage is lit, the bartender steps into the lit area immediately after, and the lights behind him dim again as he moves forward.]

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, leaning closer to the scene playing out in front of him:_

Is he…

[After another minute, the lights flicker once before coming back on throughout the tavern.]

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, shaking his head and blinking quickly as he takes a deep breath:_

Apologies, Melanie, I…

Your question escapes me.

“It escapes you, hm?” Melanie can’t see the look on his face, but she imagines it’s something funny. “Did the meaning get lost? Or did you forget my question? Questions are made for answering.”

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, quietly:_

I fear this question to be

an exception to that rule.

“Why?” 

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL:_

You could ask me to answer it

no less than one hundred times,

and with each new utterance

it would only sound farther away.

“Then there has to be something special about the question,” Melanie asks, smile slowly spreading on her face, “right? Isn’t it part of the answer already that you can’t?”

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, with a bite of laughter:_

I suppose it must be; tis a shame, that

my understanding of this answer

is hindered by its missing half.

“I guess we’d better get you a new one,” Melanie says, tilting her head, “so how about this? If you aren’t a Fool jingling away wherever, who are you?”

_A long moment of silence from Timothy as he considers this question. He takes a couple sips from his glass and lightly kicks his hat where it lies next to him on the floor._

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, in a near whisper:_

I have a brother, I think--

Or had one, or… 

_(clearing his throat)_

I have one.

“A brother, hm,” Melanie asks, gently pushing her stein of lukewarm water to the side. It’s not like she needs to pretend to drink it. This show goes on regardless. “And that means you must know him well, since you have one; what’s he like?”

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL:_

Quite like me, I reckon.

_(taking another swig)_

Better, though.

“Better?” Melanie cocks her head a bit more, “Sounds like a recipe for a rivalry if I ever heard one- has to be tough, having a brother that’s ‘you but better.’”

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, with a much softer laugh than before:_

This has been my description of him

since we were much younger, and

that has been the response from most.

I’ve no choice but to contradict you--

I feel swells of pride and little else.

“That’s sweet. ‘s good to be close with someone like that,” Melanie’s smile widens just a touch, “So I have to ask… why didn’t you know if you had a brother?”

_TIMOTHY THE FOOL, visibly tense as he considers his answer, as though he is straining against something:_

I… Cannot answer that.

_(leaning back in his chair dramatically, the back of his hand pressed against his forehead)_

Apologies, dear Pythia, for

my utter lack of answers.

Oh, to have a mortal mind

laid bare by one who knows 

so much.

Again with the damn metaphors. Melanie has grown to hate metaphors so very much over the past few months. One or two sprinkled in is fine, but when everyone speaks in nothing but metaphors, she can feel her skull aching. She says, “If you don’t even remember enough to even say if you have a brother, then I guess you’re less than nothing. Shame.” She sighs, brushing some of her hair back. “And here I thought I was speaking to an actual person.”

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, with a surprised laugh:_

Did a certain psychic forget which kingdom

she now finds herself in?

“No. I haven’t.” Melanie says, disappointed. She turns away to face the bar. “I think I’m done with charity work for the night. You ought to find whatever scene you’re supposed to wander into, Fool.”

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, cocking his head slightly:_

Do you not think myself

meant for this one?

“Since the stage is still there,” Melanie says, “I’d say not yet.” 

_A quiet, awkward moment as Timothy stares forward and furrows his brow in confusion._

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, picking his hat up off the floor and standing:_

Well, I suppose… 

_(clearing his throat)_

I suppose I will take my leave, then.

_(putting his jingly hat back on)_

I wish you the best of nights,

dear mind reader.

_(gesturing at the empty glasses on their table)_

You have my sincerest appreciation

for the drink and the company.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t mention it,” Melanie waves him off, “can we just get an ‘end scene’ already?”

_Timothy, the Fool, EXITS, looking as confused as ever._

[The lights fade to a pale blue as the set starts to turn counterclockwise, moving us back out of the tavern.]

_End scene._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! We'll be back with Act 3, Scene 1 on October 25! :-)


	13. Act 3, Scene 1 - The Hanged Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which knowledge and memories are shared amongst fools.
> 
> alt. summary: The fools are fightiinggggggggg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for unreality and arguments

There comes a time when even the most tender of spots must callous over, and ends wait for no man. A kiss may be felt but cannot last, and in turn a much desired presence must quit the sight. Martin stole himself away and, in turn, has left Jon to recover alone in a bed far too large, far too material, and far too empty.

Unfortunately, Jon is not the type to sit and recover, even when that’s probably the only sensible decision to make. He made peace long ago with the fact that he’s not exactly the picture of sensibility.

Soon after Martin’s footsteps retreat down the hall, Jon rises from the bed, checking that his attire and affairs are still in order. One of the daggers he keeps on him is settled on the table beside. Jon forcefully refuses to entertain even the barest notion of Martin bending down over the mass of undulating arachnid limbs and retrieving it from where it’d fallen; he rather likes not having multiple heart attacks in a day, thank you.

When he gently peels the sheer fabric cascading from the canopy away, Jon expects things to have more or less returned to what he had come to know. He expects to see a closed room, perhaps ornately furnished or perhaps containing nothing more than an unlit candle, and a door. He expects to see the dim light that enters the room from above, and he expects to see the polished stone of the floor, and he sees both. 

What he doesn’t expect is the floor to end. What he doesn’t expect is for there to be no wall before the bed.

Jon stands frozen in place, looking into the empty space where masonry was supposed to hide him away from the rest of the castle’s purview. He looks and beyond the absence of a wall, there is dimness. 

Many thousands of seats stretch out in front of him, lined in red silk which appears muddy in the bleak opaqueness of the room. Above are balconies with even more seats, stretching up and back against smooth stone walls which disappear into the full black of an abyss where light does not reach. Jon stands in the center of his stage, one hand gripping the light blue curtain so tightly that he’s more worried, for a moment, about accidentally ripping it. 

Jon feels it. The gaze of countless eyes, at most a thousand pairs, trained onto the spot where he stands. He stands in the center of the stone pedestal of the stage and feels like his breath is leaving his lungs, because nothing is real. Nothing is _here._

There is no castle in front of him. There is a theatre, and there is no one but himself.

“How…?” He whispers and the sound of his own voice crackles strangely even to his own ears. From the nonexistent audience there is a fluttering as though nine hundred bodies are shifting in unison. Softly whispering fabric or softly whispering words, it seems the same. He sees nothing but he knows that you’re there. 

He grips his dagger closer in hand and, the moment he steps away from the soothing respite the bed promises, there is a whirring beneath his socked heels. The soft susurrus of fabric intensifies and, as Jon’s head jerks back, he finds that he isn’t as alone as it first appears.

At first, Jon can’t tell if they look formless because of the flowing black robes they wore or because they simply looked inhuman. There’s five in number, slowly emerging from the dusted out corners of stage left and an extra from stage right; they all wear the hoods of executioners without slits cut into the fabric. 

From stage left one carries one of Lord Blackwood’s numerous inherited fine tea sets upon a silver platter. Of the five that amble silently from Jon’s right, two carry a wooden table and chairs that Jon knows to be immensely heavy. The remaining spectres set about moving the bed, rolling it on invisible wheels into the recesses of stage right. It’s only then when Jon realizes that the stage had been wholly empty besides the bed and bedside table, and even that bedside table was being repurposed as a new place to rest. Despite the veiled figures being wholly blind, they carried out their strange work with striking precision.

Not for the first time, Jon feels every fiber of his being scream to run- to hop over the edge of the stage and into the unknown theatre beyond, if only to escape the strange presence and find another, more imminently survivable plan of attack. 

(It should scare him that he’s only now remembered that he is a coward.)

Instead, Jon swallows thickly and squares his shoulders as though that will hide the quiver in his hand around the knife, held more awkwardly than he once had. It wasn’t that the flight response had been beaten out of him completely- though Annabelle had certainly tried to beat it out of him, among other things- but he at least knows he’s capable of fighting. And if nothing else, even if he can’t fight for himself, he still can fight for Martin.

He unsheathes his dagger and raises it towards the nearest cloaked figure, speaking as though he isn’t taking a step back toward safety and as though he actually knows how he’s to slice to do damage through their heavy clothes and thick leather gloves. “You there- all of you- stop what you’re doing and _state your business,”_

The cloaked figure does not answer. It merely continues to nudge the round wooden table it had brought together with the bedside table until both open up like props and are more easily joined together. 

“...” Jon waits, but there’s no response. He approaches, eyebrows furrowing. “Hello? I told you to state your business- hey,” He taps the figure’s shoulder and it doesn’t turn its head in his direction. “Dammit- hello, will you just _pay attention_ for five seconds and get your little- band of _ruffians_ to stop taking my Lordship’s damn bed?” 

The cloaked figure continues to say nothing but Jon thinks he can hear a long suffering sigh from underneath the heavy fabric. The skin at the back of his neck burns. The bed and three of the mysterious figures disappear from view. 

Jon clears his throat and tries again, speaking authoritatively as he points the tip of his dagger to the back of what he assumes is the figure’s neck, “As the Knight of Lord Blackwood’s Court and Head Commander of the Duke’s army, I order you to _cease right this minute_ and face me. At least then if you continue in your obstinance, we might fight more honorably!” He shifts his stance a bit lower, preparing to make good on his threat.

The cloaked figure sighs audibly. The figure does not turn and instead finishes arranging the furniture. It ignores Jon and meanders away into the shadows. 

Jon is left alone once again at centerstage, pointing a dagger at empty air and with no tangible person to heed his command. His ears burn and he can’t shake the feeling that someone is laughing at him. 

Dropping his fighter’s stance, he looks around to find the cloaked figures have disappeared. The wall beside him is different, now. It’s a large stage, but alarmingly, it feels like a far more claustrophobic version of Blackwood Manor’s dining hall. 

[SETTING: Soft blue light fades in over Blackwood Manor’s Grand Hall. Orange light filters into the room through the stained glass window on stage right and casts the room in the glow of sunrise. Also on stage right we have Lord Blackwood’s expansive dining table, adorned, as always, with flowers and delicate dishware. The four chairs on the near end of the table are empty.

A distant, muted voice can be heard like brief paint splatters against the castle walls. As the voice spills over into the Grand Hall, the light shifts slightly until faint tones of pink and gold are mixed in with the blue.]

_ENTER Timothy, the Fool, jingling brightly. There is a brief pause to his steps as he notices Sir Jonathan standing, tense, in the center of the Grand Hall._

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, removing his hat:_

Pray tell, Jonathan, what maketh

such a _brave_ Knight so tense

on this lovely, golden morning?

“Nothing,” Jon can tell that Timothy is trying to antagonize, but he really doesn’t have the energy to engage. Not really. Running a hand down his face, he just looks back out over the empty audience and then glances back at Timothy. “... That’s… a lie. It’s not nothing, but I don’t think you’d believe me.”

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, approaching Jonathan carefully and hesitantly, as if considering his words for a moment:_

It is rather appropriate of my station

to suspend disbelief on occasion.

_(sitting at the Grand Hall table and pouring two cups of tea)_

As the only real alternative to

lending my ears to your thoughts

would be to let those thoughts run

rampant through all the lovely flowers,

I shall loan them to you now.

“I don’t know if you want to drink that,” Jon says somewhat belatedly, remembering the hands that brought the tea in.

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, after taking a sip:_

Now, now, Jonathan, do not sink

to my post and deny such a comfort.

“Timothy,” Jon says, wincing a bit at how Timothy is just… drinking the mysterious tea that came out of nowhere. “Where, exactly, do you think that tea came from?”

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, furrowing his brow as he sets the teacup back on its saucer:_

Pardon?

“People don’t just… leave random pots of tea lying around, right?” Jon asks, glancing between the table and the stage’s edge. He decides not to sit on the chairs for now. He wants to keep his guard up, for the moment, “That’s not normal. So where did it come from?”

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, turning around to look at Jonathan with a smirk:_

I believe it comes from the loving labor

of _your Lordship,_ if I am not mistaken.

_(with a slightly more serious expression)_

Do you… have true cause to deem it 

_random?_

“Martin didn’t make that tea- I saw it,” Jon says, trying to figure out how in the hell he could even explain this. “It’s just- after I was out of bed, there were…. I think they were people. They changed everything here.”

_A brief pause in conversation as the Fool turns away from Jonathan. His eyes widen and his facial expression breaks briefly into a grin._

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, aside:_

What an exceptional sight it must have been

for Mister Sir Knight to call his Lordship so.

_(to Jonathan again, with a steeled expression)_

Please do elaborate on thy mind’s

interpretation of _everything?_

“It’s not an _interpretation._ I’m seeing it now,” Jon frowns heavily, looking out over the stage. The audience remains empty but he knows the seats are filled. “We’re on a stage, and there’s no wall there, and- there’s seats. There are people _watching us, Fool,_ and you’re here getting caught up on giving me too many titles!”

_A second pause in conversation as Timothy becomes very pale._

[The lights over Timothy fade to deep blues and reds, but the lights over Sir Jonathan do not. A spotlight comes on on the far end of the Grand Hall table, and an image of the interior of a tavern flickers against the back wall.]

Jon’s head snaps up, glancing frantically at the ceiling as he spies not the stone scaffolding, but a mass of wooden beams and strange dark metal and gleaming colored glass. He whispers, “Good lord, what…?”

[A man who looks remarkably similar to Timothy--a slim frame, cropped, dark hair, and soft clothing--sits in a chair that seems to have appeared out of nowhere, and empty steins of ale sit before him. He is turned around in his chair and facing behind him, where a second spotlight comes on and begins to weave through the Grand Hall. A hooded figure follows in its path as it leads up to “Timothy’s” seat. When the figure approaches, it picks up the empty steins in front of “Timothy” and places a newly-filled one in his hand.

The spotlights both shut off and the lights over Timothy shift back to their original soft blues, pinks, and oranges. The backdrop fades out and is replaced by the familiar stone walls of Blackwood Manor.] 

_Silence as Timothy, the Fool, grows remarkably paler and says nothing._

Jon quickly crosses the stage and grips Tim by the shoulder, trying to drag him up and out of his seat. “Good God- didn’t you _see_ that? The- the lights, the colors, they all- you were here, but you were at a bar, and the- it wasn’t you.” Jon stops himself, eyes searching the darkness where the beams of powerful light had passed. He… doesn’t even know where to start, with that. 

There’s so much that’s just gone on, and there’s some kind of apparatus he doesn’t understand, but the hooded figure had come back, and… “Someone who looked… Tim, dammit, get _up,_ it looked like _you,_ was sitting there. At the fake tavern.”

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, softly:_

How did _you_ see that?

“What do you mean, how did I see that?” Jon asks, genuinely thrown off kilter. He looks down at Tim, eyebrows furrowing and lips parting, “It’s just… it was happening right in front of us. In plain… there’s no daylight in here, I don’t think. In plain light. In whatever plain light makes up this stage.”

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, clenching his empty hand into a fist:_

Right.

_(letting go of the stein in his hand and standing from his seat to face Jonathan)_

You two working together, then?

Mister Sir Knight and… 

King something-or-other? 

Okay, that... What? “What?” Jon asks, absolutely lost. “Working with- are you implying that I would work with _King Bouchard?_ Whyever the hell would I work with that impudent little- _creature?”_

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, shaking his head in confusion:_

What? No! Do you truly believe

I would be employed by such a man

and live to forget his name?

“Well considering the fact that you apparently can’t see a bleeding meter in front of you,” Jon snaps, “it might have crossed my mind.”

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, snapping at Jonathan with both fists clenched at his sides:_

Considering that _your_ eyes can reach

well beyond whatever just crossed

your mind, I would kindly appreciate

you keeping your suppositions

locked well enough away.

_(taking a deep breath)_

_Ms._ King, Ms… something-or-other King.

Jon takes a breath himself, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Has Tim always talked this much? “I don’t know who that is.”

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, aside:_

Right… Two Oracles in one kingdom 

who _just happen_ to have remained 

strangers to one another for the durations

of their respective lifetimes? Does he think 

so low of me that I might lack any knowledge

of esteemed literature?

“Oracle?” Jon shakes his head, looking at Tim incredulously, “You’re really mad enough to believe that sort of thing is _real?”_

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL:_

Am _I_ mad?

“That’s what it looks like!” Jon says, “Something _weird_ has been going on since I found M- his _Lordship’s_ room of terrible little nightmares. The world is narrowed down to this stage that no one else can see, and you’re spouting off the names of people I have never heard of. Of course I think you’ve blown your top!”

_A pause as Timothy considers what Jonathan has just said and furrows his brow. After a moment, his expression rights itself again and he smirks._

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL:_

Pray tell, Jonathan--his _what?_

“Spiders. It’s just full of spiders.”

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, brow furrowed yet again:_

It… _What?_

“He has a basement room full of spiders,” says Jon miserably.

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, looking deeply confused:_

Where did they come from?

“The strange thing is, that’s actually the most sensical bit,” Jon says, and does not elaborate. “The point is, I am not an Oracle, and there is something deeply wrong about where we are right now.”

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL:_

In this moment, I will choose

to believe you, if for no other reason

than that you failed to predict

our dear Martin’s arachnine abode.

“Thanks,” Jon says sarcastically, “I don’t know what I’d do without your faith in me.” He just shakes his head, glancing back toward the shadowy part of the stage. If he squints, he thinks he can see… a place, where the stage gives way to the wood of someplace that usually would never exist in a place like Blackwood Manor. “... You’re certain you didn’t see it? The way that man with the skeins was following the spotlights, or- or the other you?”

_Another brief silence as Timothy stares pointedly at Jonathan._

“I’m just making sure! It’s rather like you to overlook something for a… joke,” Jon’s nose scrunches up in disdain as he turns away. “Try not to drink too much of that tea. Who knows what’s in it.”

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, sharply:_

Perhaps I shall use the rest of it

to further drown your opinion of me.

“You’re the one who chose to be a literal Fool,” Jon says flatly, “Don’t be surprised when I treat you as such.” 

He turns away and doesn’t pay Tim any more thought. He has his eyes set, as he steps into the darkness of the room, to the space beyond the stage. There seems to be some kind of backstage area, in his estimation, full of things that an audience looking in from the seats can’t see from their vantages…

_A loud banging sound as Timothy slams his fist on the table. The lights overhead flicker in tandem with the sound._

_TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, yelling after Jonathan:_

I have already requested that you

keep your suppositions far away

from me--particularly those which

your newly-omnipotent self has

conjured about my _choices!_

And Jon leaves stage right.

[The lights flicker again, briefly.]

_End scene._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to y'all for being patient with us while we took a brief break from writing to catch up on life in general!! 
> 
> As always, come scream at us on tumblr @sam-roulette :)
> 
> [TW: Unreality for the following comment section]


	14. Act 3, Scene 2 - Sun is Fading

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which comedians perform in wool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWs for this scene: unreality, death mention, arguments, and a canon-typical lack of free will
> 
> (additional CW that is unrelated to this scene in the end notes)

[SCENE: The Grand Hall of Blackwood Manor is just as it has been left, with Timothy, the Fool, settled at a table and looking to where Sir Jonathan has gone. Visibly stepping from stage right, Sasha James, a Housekeeper, enters the stage with a broom in hand that seems to have never touched a speck of dust. 

The lighting of the Grand Hall tinges into a warmer hue.]

SASHA, A HOUSEKEEPER,  _ aside: _

Well, what a sight I’ve come to! 

The emptiness is warranted, as duty and 

lack of desire have carried many of 

the occupants far and astray- and here

the seat of desire himself sits, 

so stark, so grim.

There may yet be reason, and

my soul yearns to know what secret

lies just within plain sight.

_ (addressing Timothy with a bright smile) _

How now, Fool! No bells today?

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ mouth shaping quickly into a smile: _

Should I kick beneath my chair

you might hear them, but presently

you are right! They jingle not for 

such an empty room.

_ (eyeing the suspiciously clean broom Sasha is carrying) _

What reason might a lamb have

for such clean straw?

SASHA, A HOUSEKEEPER,  _ acting affronted and as though she’s not smiling: _

The same reason my wool

has yet to fully grow in yet, Sirrah-

I have only just begun! And the old was 

so barren of straw and lush with dust

that one could scarcely tell it from 

one of Sir Knight’s practice victims.

Or, what’s left of them, I suppose-

and I suppose one such victim sits

right before me, devoid of apparel 

or audience. 

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ looking sadly amused: _

Ah, you see, it  _ was _ a void moments ago,

but my current audience has quite the knack

for appropriate timing.

_ (aside) _

I suppose ‘tis not only his Majesty’s lonesome

which has an unsuspecting beck and call.

_ (to Sasha again) _

And would I be a proper Fool 

without the skill to don my adornments 

in but a moment’s notice?

_ A soft jingling sound as Timothy, the Fool, gestures to Sasha with his hat and puts it back on.  _

SASHA, A HOUSEKEEPER,  _ leaning on her broom as she looks Timothy, the Fool, over: _

Your masks are speedily furnished,

dear Fool, that you might have me-

well, I cannot possibly be fooled,

for in that way my station ranks 

above yours.

No, I do believe your costume to be

lacking, for there’s a dark stain

upon your delicate bosom.

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ quietly, after a biting laugh: _

Should your broom be but training practice

for our dear Sir Knight, I may right be a wolf 

in Fool’s costuming-- 'twould not do for the stock

to misjudge my theatrics.

_ (aside, smirking) _

Much as she misjudges my rank.

_ (to Sasha, shaking his head and smiling again) _

Worry not over the stain--

the weapon was simply… blunt.

SASHA, A HOUSEKEEPER,  _ mocking: _

“Worry not over the stain,”

he says to the housekeeper.

Your costume is fitted well, oh Wolf,

for you know not your own words! 

I am here to scrub out stains, am I not?

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL:

That is indeed your post here

in this place, but I fear that any words

which you should substitute for lye

may prove too strong for the cloth

and that you might scrub layers

beyond what you intended.

SASHA, A HOUSEKEEPER,  _ aside, suddenly stomping the broom against the ground: _

“What I intend,” he says! 

For as much as he buries himself

in his title, the Fool leaves only

the barest threads of truth to cling to.

Is he attempting to tease me apart

the way I him, or is that a gesture

of another key?

_ (to Timothy) _

I do caution, Sir Wolf, if that be

the new address- that you leave

the baring of fang to one more suited.

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ with a genuine laugh: _

And who might be more suited, the lamb?

SASHA, A HOUSEKEEPER:

The one with a broom to bludgeon with.

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ standing from his seat and reaching to snatch the broom from her hand: _

Ah, now who acts as a wolf?

“All the better to bludgeon you with,”

says the dear Housekeeper--

SASHA, A HOUSEKEEPER,  _ quickly twirling the broom to knock the bristles in Tim’s face: _

Be lucky, Fool, that this Housekeeper 

offers wool to soak up the stain of 

both previous blight and outstretched hand!

_ (taking a step back and knocking the broom's handle against the stage, more like a guard with a spear than a Housekeeper. The sound is oddly muted.) _

A stain which you ought spill soon,

for I am not so easily misdirected.

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ taking a step back and holding his hands up: _

A worthy wolf  _ indeed--  _

_ (looking around for something to protect himself with before quickly pulling his hat off again and holding it out in front of him) _

But do you really wish to make 

more work for yourself?

SASHA, A HOUSEKEEPER,  _ scowling a bit as she takes her weapon of choice in both hands: _

I promise you, dear Fool, that 

my work is oft occupied 

with thoughts of you.

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ taking another step back, setting his hat on the table, and picking up a chair to brandish at Sasha: _

Never have I been so charmed!

Would this… Housekeeper… dare 

to detail her thoughts for a Fool such that 

he might better understand their nature?

SASHA, A HOUSEKEEPER,  _ aside, speaking directly to the audience: _

A test, then! A simple Fool would never

take the raise of armaments, no matter how 

small, how fragile, how breakable to be 

a mere trifle. This is more than a tease.

It is a show that he prepares for, putting 

the most sleek and ponderous of his

_ assets  _ on display.

If it is a fight he prepares for, hiding under

the guise of Fool, allow me also to hide 

under the guise of maidenly disposition.

_ (to Timothy, sighing mightily) _

I need only sigh and that 

should tell you the whole of it.

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ eyeing her cautiously and holding the chair tighter: _

Were you not bristling both in stature and 

in weapon of choice, I might believe you, but

you paint not a picture of fragility, Housekeeper.

Might I request you explain your motive?

SASHA, A HOUSEKEEPER,  _ frowning lightly as she bumps the broom against the ground again, impatient: _

I haven’t need for fragility, when my motive

be earnest- but in such earnestness it is you

who may yet need a touch of fragility yourself! 

I ask only what made you sit so silent as 

a mintless grave minted with the ghosts 

of all you cannot see, and you talk of wolves.

I ask of stains, which a Housekeeper is equipped

to handle, and you speak of making more work 

for myself! 

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ slight anger in his tone: _

I speak of wolves for this stain 

you speak of is rather more like a patch,

so kindly sewn by  _ his Knightship’s _ very hands--

teeth and jaws anew in the threads 

upon my jacket.

Scrub as you like, but I fear it will not 

be removed and your effort will result

in nothing other than wasted time.

SASHA, A HOUSEKEEPER,  _ matching his tone with spitting anger: _

It seems more to me like you’ve sewn the formless 

stain into lupine shape upon your attire! 

I, a  _ Housekeeper,  _ stand before you with a broom-

what use does a Fool have for brandishing a weapon?

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ with a barked laugh: _

A  _ Housekeeper  _ indeed, towering above

the foolish as if an infantrywoman, 

fighting my words with target practice.

SASHA, A HOUSEKEEPER:

With words, Sirrah-- I fight your words

only with words and the wit behind them.

Foolish as you are you are not witless.

You are, however, quite skilled in finding

shadows where there is only sincerity.

I will ask plainly, so you are not able 

to prance your miserable little jig away.

What has Sir Jonathan done and why,

pray tell, has it left you a miserable ass?

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL:

In truth I know not how to explain 

what he has done other than 

that he has acted the same.

SASHA, A HOUSEKEEPER:

Yet you act as though he be some

herald of apocalyptic suffering.

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ still with anger in his voice, though it fades as he continues to speak: _

In yet further truth, he acted

rather like the victim of such things,

and yet failed to divorce himself 

from the perpetrator both with 

his own words and in my own mind.

_ (with a sigh as he sets the chair down and sits again, backwards) _

Might I pose a question?

SASHA, A HOUSEKEEPER,  _ holding her broom a little closer in hand, cautious: _

You pose all other ways without asking.

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ rolling his eyes and waving his hand: _

Yes, yes--

SASHA, A HOUSEKEEPER:

But you may.

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ with a nod: _

Thank you.

_ A brief pause as Timothy considers his words. After a moment, he gestures for Sasha to sit in the chair closest to him. _

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL:

If you would be so kind,

I wish to discuss this… quietly.

_ Another brief pause as Sasha looks between Timothy and the chair. The chair and the window. Then she glances at the large, empty hall. _

SASHA, A HOUSEKEEPER:

… Quietly. In the empty dining hall.

Where Sir Knight and his Lordship are far 

away. Alone.

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ pleading: _

Regardless of the sense in my words

I mean each and every one.

SASHA, A HOUSEKEEPER,  _ aside: _

He’s gone odd, in the last ten minutes,

or perhaps the oddity has always been within.

To stay in vulnerability or to draw away

where there may yet be discovery?

_ (to Timothy) _

… If that is your craving, I will not

deny you. Simply take not my weapon.

There will be dust in the landing 

no matter what you say.

_ She sits in the chair beside Timothy and partially faces him, having the courtesy to set the broom on the other side of herself, away from Timothy. _

_ A slight scraping sound as Timothy nods and moves his own chair slightly closer to Sasha’s, leaning towards her. _

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ in a whisper: _

In her years and travels--

of which I must admit I know

far less than I surely wish to--

how much has this Housekeeper

considered the nature of Oracles? 

SASHA, A HOUSEKEEPER,  _ looking to Timothy with slight incredulity: _

… No more than one considers 

the origin of ghosts or the weight

of the philosophical. They may 

exist, but I have seen little of them.

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ with a slight nod: _

Aye, ‘tis a lucky lamb indeed 

who has yet to turn her gaze 

upon the lion’s jaws. 

_ (reaching for a cup of tea on the Grand Hall table and raising it between both of them) _

May they never close around your throat.

_ A pause as Timothy drains the cup. _

SASHA, A HOUSEKEEPER:

Your words, I will permit, are urgent

and grand in scale as the jaws

which you say close the throat

and life in turn… 

And yet they are all toothless.

Shall I laugh, Fool? 

You have again turned the course

of my inquiry to cloud-bearing tales! 

Unless your vague assertion leave

the implicit grey and lay out plain

in daylight, I may well leave.

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ looking genuinely pained: _

Should my words ever bare such proud teeth,

I shall hope you take up arms against me.

_ Another pause as Timothy pours himself a second cup of tea. He holds it between his palms for a moment, considering something, before setting it back on the table and pushing it slowly away from them.  _

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ aside as he continues watching the teapot: _

Oracle or otherwise, Sir Jonathan 

may have been right about you.

SASHA, A HOUSEKEEPER,  _ watching Timothy’s movements closely: _

Your words continue to come out

worthless- by design, it would seem! 

I know you to load the meaning down, 

and here you leave me only with 

an Oracle and fear of toothsome talk.

Do not tell me it is the tea set out

by his Lordship that stains you so?

I would be less inclined to press, 

should you have made lions 

out of the kettle’s steam.

_ Sasha reaches out as though to pour herself a cup, but her hand flinches slightly. _

SASHA, A HOUSEKEEPER:

And how hot the Fool’s lion runs!

Though ‘tis some foolishness to

presume the Fool does not run hot

himself, especially in the presence

of a poor maid such as I.

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ with a serious expression, not noticing Sasha’s joke: _

‘Tis less the tea itself and more

that premise of a hand which sets

the kettle to boiling. 

_ (breaking into a sly grin) _

Miss Housekeeper, will you assist

this poor Fool in solving a riddle?

SASHA, A HOUSEKEEPER:

What further riddle can there be

for the Fool who speaks in circles to

even answer the question of a stain? 

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ holding up one finger and clearing his throat in mock showmanship, though his expression remains serious: _

If the lion does not know about the flood,

what compels his frame upon the ark?

SASHA, A HOUSEKEEPER,  _ aside: _

A riddle indeed- and likely another ploy

to move me beyond what I originally search.

Of course, the Fool may yet let slip 

a grain of his true intention; from there

will I conduct my investigation.

_ (to Timothy) _

In the logical sense... a shepherd of sort

that may curb the instinct of the Lion to

strike out against him. But what use has Noah 

for learning the lifelong temperament, loves,

behaviors and desires of the Lion when 

he has the whole of the Earth to scour

for passengers? 

It seems to me, then, that it must be 

of will. Either the lion wishes to board

or God has made his will so.

_ A brief, silent moment as Timothy considers Sasha’s response and shrinks back into his chair slightly.  _

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ softly: _

Should your logic prove sound--

for to my ears it rings ever clearly--

which is the most fearsome:

The lion who wishes to board,

considering not that which it has left behind;

The God who plucks from the lion 

any chance of said consideration;

Or the ark?

_ Another brief pause as Sasha considers it.  _

SASHA, A HOUSEKEEPER:

Whichever will kill you first.

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ even softer: _

Are there not more painful fates?

_ End Scene. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for the comments section: unreality
> 
> after a VERY long hiatus from our main works, we should finally be back to uploading more regularly! we moved this fic to only being uploaded once a month, as there's uuuhhhh quite a bit more going on now than there was at the beginning :-)


	15. Act 3, Scene 3 - Night is Gonna Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a visitor introduces new questions, and our actors should know better than to try and answer them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWs for arguments and unreality (unreality both in the fic itself and in the comments)

All the lights go out. They take a long while to come back and are accompanied by the low scrape of turning gears and the sound of footsteps.

[SCENE: Lord Blackwood’s garden, bleeding sun.]

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL, _ blinking as he surveys  _ their _ new surroundings: _

O gods, how my eyes do play tricks

in this place.

[SCENE: There is greenery that creeps up the sides of the stairs and vines tie back the curtains, plastic foliage holding back reams of blue satin.] 

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ rubbing his eyes: _

How this place does play tricks

on my eyes.

[SCENE: The plot of land which Lord Blackwood had painstakingly tilled remains as it was before, along with the trees which still provide ample place to hide and which had stood sentry over the vigil of one Sasha James, a Housekeeper, some time ago.]

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ frantically turning in his garden chair: _

How--

[SCENE: Lord Martin Blackwood, seeming somehow more sallow under the lights that slowly take on a more saturated hue, sits in a chair in his garden with a cup of tea in hand, and the dark circles under his eyes make his face seem sunken in on itself. He is joined by , who sets a tray of tea on a marble table beside him.]

Jon stands on the side of his Lordship, frowning lightly. It’s one part the displeasure of seeing Timothy after being dismissed as some kind of drunk bellend; but mostly it’s the shock of seeing Timothy, who very calmly walked out onto the stage, suddenly twist and turn about in his seat at the scenery around him. As though he’s only now seeing it for the first goddamn time.

And then Timothy’s expression smooths out. He leans back in his seat and is once again in just the same high spirits as he always seems to be in without fail. A neverending joyous mood, only interrupted that morning.

He’s about to ask Timothy what he’s seeing- if he’s even seeing anything at all- but Martin is still there, and he still looks like  _ absolute  _ H ell. Whatever Martin’s seen had one Hell of an effect, and it’s not Jon’s job to exasperate that.

Jon bites the tip of his tongue. He needs to see more, before saying anything else. Timothy at least would appreciate that, Jon thinks somewhat acidicly.

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ smiling: _

Martin! Despite sharing its quarters,

it has felt entire lifetimes

since we met in this place. 

LORD BLACKWOOD,  _ smiling back somewhat tenuously:  _

Ah, good morning to you, Timothy--

Lifetimes indeed.

_ (gesturing to Timothy with the teacup in his hand) _

I cannot promise my person as

pleasant company and comfort,

but the tea is mine as well and

it has proven itself yet again,

should you fancy yourself a drink.

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ feigning offense, his right hand over his heart in shock as he pours himself a cup with his left: _

_ My Lordship,  _ did I not say 

to you in your very ballroom,

on the very first day I made

to inhabit it, that I would never

deny myself such a comfort?

_ A pause for Lord Martin’s laughter. _

Jon takes the moment to clear his throat, fixing Timothy with a sidelong glance as he bows his head toward Martin, “And of the tea that was left in His Lordship’s Grand Hall just this morning, after my…” Jon coughs into his hand, not elaborating on the fainting spell, “... well, did you drink that? We still don’t know who left it, do we…?”

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ his finger twitching so his fingernail clinks against the cup in his hand: _

I fear my being swept away by

such multi-dimensional companions

as reside here in this place 

tore my eyes and mind from it.

“Not everyone here is multi-dimensional, I’m finding,” Jon says ominously.

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ clinking a fingernail against his cup again: _

For all you mark others for their 

plain thoughts, you certainly 

share yours all the same.

Jon is about to say something, when he thinks better of it. Before, when he wanted to speak his real thoughts, he really did speak- aloud, where others ought to have heard. And he knows everyone else can’t hear the thoughts of others’... live soliloquies? That must be what they are. Meaning, Jon should be able to just think, and it will be spoken aloud without his say-so, right? This is how the world works?

He stares at Timothy and thinks, as hard as he can,  _ If I’m not saying my plain thoughts, who the Hell else will?  _

Jon holds still and says nothing. 

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ aside: _

Had I but known a simple force of

introspection might still your venom,

I might have employed it long ago.

LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD,  _ aside: _

Lifetimes may indeed be accurate--

How tension boils over in the garden sun.

“Christ,” says Jon, not thinking for a moment about the sacrilegious nature of that, “there is no venom and there  _ is  _ no tension. Suppose I deserve this for deigning to ask a simple question.” And also receiving the answer, now that he thinks about it. They can’t hear Jon, but… 

“... My Lordship, are you really not going to comment on our  _ Fool’s  _ remark about using introspection as a weapon against me?”

_ A pause for Lord Martin’s and Timothy’s blushing, and for Timothy’s furious glare in  _ _ Sir Jonathan’s _ _ Jonathan’s direction. _

LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD,  _ tilting his head: _

My Knight, I never heard such a remark.

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ moving to stand from his chair and walk over to Jonathan: _

Did we not discuss enough this

disturbing trait of yours? 

“It wasn’t a discussion. It was more…” Jon looks away from Timothy for a moment, looking into the audience. He has to wonder why he can’t hear what they seem to think of all this. “It’s more that I’m trying to grasp what’s happening.”

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ scoffing: _

_ You  _ are trying to grasp it?

“You could try a little harder-” Jon looks back to Timothy, but he can’t muster up the usual antagonism in his words. “If you are allowed to, I mean.”

_ Another scoff from Timothy as he moves closer to Jonathan before Lord Martin places a hand on Timothy’s shoulder to stop him. _

LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD,  _ softly, with a concerned expression: _

My Knight…

Jonathan, I--

Allowed?

_ Oh,  _ Jon thinks,  _ dammit.  _ “My Lordship, it- I don’t mean allowances that you give. I- don’t precisely know what I mean, but...”

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ turning to face Lord Martin and sneering: _

_ Your Knight  _ continues on as always

with this little  _ tirade _ about--

About illegitimate concerns that others

have taken to… To what,  _ Sir Kn-- _

_ Sir J-- _

_ Jonathan? _

Such harmless acts as scene setting?

_ (glancing very briefly at the audience before shaking his head and facing Jonathan) _

What use have such strangers in

setting tables for us?

“To maintain an illusion, maybe? To hide that we’re under siege by something? Hell if I know- there’s a reason I’m trying to figure this  _ out,”  _ Jon hisses, before shaking his head. He needs to focus- no more getting bogged down in whatever antagonism was being stirred.

Taking a deep breath, he steps closer to Martin and looks him in the eye, asking, “May I ask you a question, Lord Blackwood?”

LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD:

Anything.

_ Another scoff from Timothy. _

“Did you happen to leave tea in the Grand Hall, this morning?”

_ Another clink of Timothy’s fingernail against his teacup while Lord Martin considers the question. _

LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD:

It would be uncharacteristic of me

to do anything but.

“Yes, but,” Was Martin ever this vague before?  _ “did you?  _ Do you remember?”

_ Clink. _

LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD:

Did you find it to your liking?

“But did you make it?” 

_ Clink. _

LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD,  _ with a frown: _

Was--

was it  _ not  _ to your liking?

_ Clink. _

“The taste doesn’t matter,” Jon says, swallowing. His throat is getting dry. It’s a simple question, isn’t it? It shouldn’t be so hard to get a straightforward answer. “Did you make the tea this morning? Yes, or no.”

_ Clink. _

_ A beat of silence from Lord Martin. _

_ Clink. _

LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD,  _ with a soft laugh: _

It would be uncharacteristic of me

to do anything but.

_ Clink.  _

[SCENE: Lord Blackwood’s garden, bathed in sunlight. Greenery climbs the sides of the stairs and vines tie back the curtains, plastic foliage holding back reams of blue satin. The plot of land which Lord Blackwood had painstakingly tilled remains as it was before, along with the trees which still provide ample place to hide and which had stood sentry over the vigil of one Sasha James, a Housekeeper, who sits across from Timothy at a small garden table.

Lord Martin Blackwood, seeming brighter and more awake than he has in a long while, sits up straight in a chair in his garden with a cup of tea in hand, and the dark circles under his eyes make his face seem to have vanished. He is joined by , who sets a tray of tea on a marble table beside him.]

_ A laugh from Sasha as she picks a cup off her and Timothy’s table and takes a sip. _

Jon’s eyes widen as he looks at Sasha, who wasn’t  _ there  _ merely five seconds ago. “Where,” Jon breathes, hand flying to the hilt of his sword, “did you-”

“Greetings!” A woman’s voice calls, “Salutations!” There’s the tap of a cane’s tip on the wooden stage and Jon’s head turns, looking to the place where the stage fades into the simpler flooring of the backstage. Jon still feels the cobwebs sticking to his skin from the hour he spent navigating it, before finding his way here, for a scene already laid out.

Melanie steps out onto the stage, one arm linked with a very familiar Knight by her side. Melanie asks, somewhat impatient, “This is still… uh, what was the scene- Lord Blackwood’s manor? Seriously, how hard is it to find a Lordship around here?”

LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD:

What reason have you for

searching for  _ a Lordship? _

“Ah, there you are,” Melanie says, “That definitely helps. You’d think with there being only one stage it wouldn’t be so hard to get turned around…”

_ A stage?  _ Jon tenses, eyes widening a bit at the sudden confirmation of everything he’s been seeing up until this point. His first instinct is to mistrust it- after all, this woman certainly comes at a convenient time, and to mention this being a stage so easily... She’s certainly not anyone he’s ever seen before. But beside her... “Georgie?”

LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD and SIR GEORGINA BARKER,  _ simultaneously: _

Jonathan?

“Hm? Jonathan…?” Melanie says, bewildered. For a few moments, she tries to remember where she’s heard that name. The second she remembers, she says without any kind of thought, “What, your stuffy ex-fiancée? What’s he doing here?”

SASHA, A HOUSEKEEPER,  _ surprised: _

Fiancée?

Jon makes an affronted noise,  _ “Stuffy?” _

LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD,  _ stiffly: _

Jonathan.

“Apologies, my Lord.” Jon coughs discreetly into his sleeve, swallowing down a complaint. “What is your command of me…?”

LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD,  _ clearing his throat: _

Would my Knight care to make

the introductions?

“Er, yes- though it’s only one introduction I can really make,” Jon says, gesturing to Georgie. “This is Sir Georgina Barker- we trained together in Lady Cane’s Court, until she set off on a mission to keep an eye on a Miss Baldwin for Lady Cane- I was a tad… preoccupied, in the months after, so we ended up losing touch.”

“And due to circumstances we don’t need to go into, she’s decided to be my Knight,” Melanie says, grinning “My name is Melanie King- I don’t know if the ‘Lady’ title still applies. Haven’t been home in ages.”

LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD,  _ stuttering: _

R-right.

‘Tis a pleasure to make the acquaintance

of those my Knight holds--or has once held--

dear.

“You’ll be getting to know more of us soon,” Melanie says, “We live here now.”

LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD,  _ with a squeak: _

Pardon?

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ rolling his eyes: _

O gods, if we could have but  _ one day  _

of peace.

“Well I’ll be,” Melanie says, turning her head toward Timothy, “If it isn’t the charity case from the tavern! Georgie, remember I told you?”

“You know the Fool?” Jon asks, eyebrows furrowing as he looks between Melanie and Timothy. “No- no, I remember now. Earlier today, the Fool had said something about- an  _ Oracle.”  _

“Don’t call me that,” Melanie simply says. “Or Pythia, for that matter- I heard enough silly epithets out of that Fool.”

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ with a twitch of his brow: _

Apologies, friends--I was unaware that

my name slipped off of my form 

and through the doorway whenever

you pleased to strip it from me.

Shall I address you both as  _ ass  _ and __

_ stranger,  _ then?

“Um? You never told me your name?” Melanie says, eyebrows rising, “What else am I supposed to call you, exactly?”

SASHA, A HOUSEKEEPER,  _ eyes widening comically: _

And what, dear Fool, might bring 

cause to the sudden sharpness 

of tone which slices through now?

Were we not merely exchanging

our feather-soft banterings 

this morning? What could 

unbalance such humors?

“He certainly hasn’t been  _ bantering  _ with me,” Jon says, “I can tell you that much.”

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ bitterly: _

Nor you with me, Sir Knight.

“You know exactly why that is, for my part,” Jon huffs, crossing his arms over his chest somewhat petulantly.

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL:

Ah, but my reasoning enters an ear

and flees the scene, hm?

“Can’t help what you never  _ had,  _ apparently.”

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL:

Ears?

“Reason.”

_ Silence from Timothy, the Fool, as his blood boils. _

Melanie looks to Lord Blackwood, raising an eyebrow despite it not being visible beneath the blindfold as she asks, “Do they get into lover’s tiffs often or is this new?”

_ Hesitation from Lord Martin Blackwood as he stutters, loudly. _

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ to Melanie: _

This  _ is  _ new, thank you, but if you would

kindly leave love out of it.

Jon glares in Melanie’s direction and turns his nose up at the thought of “romance” with the Fool. “Fools aren’t to my taste, thank you.”

_ Utter silence from Lord Martin Blackwood as he turns a deep shade of red.  _

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ turning red for a very different reason: _

How many weeks must we live

in this manor before you take it

upon yourself to see us as more

than the cards we were dealt?

Jon’s about to rebuke that statement when he glances again at the slight tackiness of the “garden” chairs, made only to look like roughly solid stone with hollow material and some kind of paint. There’s more beyond the cards being dealt here- and now he  _ knows  _ it. And he can’t turn that knowledge off the same way he can’t shove the ocean behind a door. 

When he looks at Timothy, it’s with pity. Now Timothy’s role of Fool doesn’t seem nearly so laughable. “... You’re right. You’re right in that I’m seeing more than whatever cards we’re being made to hold onto, now, and,” Jon swallows, throat dry under the oppressive lights, “I’m just sorry you have to be this unaware.”

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ stuttering: _

You-

LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD,  _ tilting his head: _

Unaware of what, Jonathan?

Jon feels sweat bead at the nape of his neck. There’s a lot of ways this can go wrong, if he isn’t able to explain it well enough- a lot of ways to make it seem like he’s gone proper mad. And maybe he has, and hasn’t realized it, in the casual sort of way Melanie leans against Georgie’s side. It’d certainly explain why Martin has seemed… Why his Lord has been… 

Melanie, who’s begun to catch on, straightens up and clears her throat pointedly. “So he has the Sight, has he? Your Sir Jonathan.”

Jon’s head feels like it’s going to crack off his neck with how fast he looks at the woman, eyes widening. “I’m… sorry?”

LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD,  _ a very pale pink: _

M-my…?

SASHA, A HOUSEKEEPER:

Well to whom else would a Sir 

such as Jonathan belong?

_ A seething eye roll from Timothy, the Fool, who says nothing. _

“Your Knight, yes, very cute to acknowledge that,” Melanie says impatiently, “I’m trying to talk about his um…  _ psychic….. _ powers.” Jon squints a bit at that because the way she says it makes it sound like it’s not psychic powers at all.

LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD:

H-his…?

SASHA, A HOUSEKEEPER:

Psychic?! 

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ pointing accusingly at Jonathan: _

I  _ knew  _ it.

“This is news to me??” Jon says, somewhat exasperated.

“Is it, though?” Melanie waves a hand toward the direction she’s pretty sure the audience is in. It helps that there’s a whole lot of dead, empty air in that direction. “Haven’t you felt strange? As though you were seeing a world no one in this great big room can see?”

SASHA, A HOUSEKEEPER,  _ aside: _

Room? Though the claim of

the miraculous power be much

to take in, the thought of 

the garden brought within

is stranger and stranger yet.

A resigned sign from Timothy as he falls back in his chair and unwittingly takes another sip of tea.

_ Clink. _

“What garden?” Jon asks faintly at the same time that Melanie asks, with some bewilderment, “We’re in a garden?”

LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, _looking at their surroundings_ _with a fond smile:_

And she’s lovely, is she not?

Jon says nothing, paling. 

Melanie slowly turns her head to Lord Blackwood’s direction. “I literally could not tell you either way.” 

LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD,  _ with a soft laugh as he rubs the back of his neck: _

Right.

Jon clears his throat, eyes darting between Melanie and the audience as she lowers her hand back to the cane under her arm, and asks, “And what business do you have, asking about my… an ability I don’t fully know is my own?”

“Easy,” Melanie smiles, “because you can see what I know is there. Or uh… what’s ‘beyond the curtain,’ to the rest of you.”

SASHA, A HOUSEKEEPER:

Is it not the veil you speak of?

Thin and sheer, light enough to 

toss aside at a moment’s notice?

“No.” 

TIMOTHY,  _ somewhat hushed: _

And what is it?

“I literally just said it’s a curtain.” Melanie says.

TIMOTHY,  _ annoyed: _

What is it that you see

_ beyond  _ the curtain?

Melanie deadpans, “Nothing, due to personal reasons. But when I could, it looked like a stage.”

“And all the seats are empty,” Jon says softly, “but someone is still watching.”

“Yeah, exactly!” Melanie says cheerfully. “So your Knight can see it all.”

LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD,  _ looking between Jonathan and Melanie, eyes occasionally flickering out to the audience before glazing over and refocusing on the stage: _

And she’s lovely, is she not?

Melanie nods to herself before leaning over to Georgie and muttering, “Yep, he’s creepy.”

LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD,  _ looking slightly dazed: _

Hm?

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ absently, while clinking a fingernail against the teapot in the center of the table: _

Aye, the loveliest.

“I’m leaning a little more towards ‘existentially terrifying’ myself,” Melanie says, not at all bothered by whatever the reaction ought to be. “Is your Lordship always so… shallow?”

“He’s no such thing!” Jon’s quick to defend, because the absolute  _ nerve  _ of this woman, waltzing in and paying not so much as a smidge of respect to seemingly anyone or anything. Even if there’s a stage there and the world’s confined it doesn’t give her a right to be so callous with it. “His Lordship is merely… tired, today, it seems. He usually is a little more lively.”

SASHA, A HOUSEKEEPER,  _ aside: _

When he isn’t skulking about with his 

little darknesses hidden under his coat-

when he exists.

Melanie perks up as she approaches Sasha, following the sound of her voice and hearing her as she stands from her seat quickly. “Oho, is that so? ‘When he exists’- that’s what you’ve just thought right now, isn’t it? About Martin Blackwood?”

SASHA, A HOUSEKEEPER,  _ going a little pale: _

I have no such thoughts!

“But she’s right,” Jon says, “You  _ did  _ say it- what the Hell is that even supposed to mean?”

_ A very somber beat of quiet from Lord Martin Blackwood, and a groan from Timothy. _

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL:

Might you care to leave all our thoughts

well and good alone?

“Nope,” Melanie says.

LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD,  _ with hints of both hesitation and anger in his voice: _

Timothy, my sentiments on this are neatly tied

to yours, but since my Housekeeper’s reading

of me was already spoken allowed...

‘When I exist?’

SASHA, A HOUSEKEEPER,  _ frowning: _

…

“Oh, don’t leave out the piece with the ‘little darknesses,'” Melanie says, feeling her way to a seat with her cane and stealing Sasha’s spot. “The ones he’s hiding.”

_ Another beat of quiet from Lord Martin Blackwood as he pales slightly and opens his mouth before closing it again. _

LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD,  _ softly, tense: _

I would not use the word ‘hiding,’ 

just as I do not believe dust in a corner 

hides from the sweep of your broom.

SASHA, A HOUSEKEEPER,  _ expression shifting into something a little more “humble”: _

That is everything I meant and more,

your Lordship- I mean only that you

walk about this manor with such

an air of mystery! Words can scarcely

describe, yet describe you have, poet

as you are in the margins of our esteem!

The thought was not fully formed-

it is my mistake, that I think not in 

purity.

_ A quiet scoff from Lord Martin Blackwood before he takes a deep breath and composes himself. _

LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD:

Think what you will--your thoughts are

far from mine to keep. I would not dream

of trapping you so.

I simply ask... not to hear what was not

meant to be heard.

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ with a far louder scoff: _

Might I ask that you, Martin, 

refrain from placating your anger?

For you wear it plainly regardless,

and what is worn should also be felt.

LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD,  _ taken aback: _

There is no fault in recoiling

without intent to strike.

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ bitterly _ :

There  _ is  _ fault in refusing to strike

something which wills itself a deserving target.

LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD:

There is  _ also  _ fault in willing  _ your self _

a hasty weapon.

_ A brief moment of quiet as Timothy and Lord Martin Blackwood look at each other over the table. _

LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD,  _ with a sigh: _

Please, Timothy--

_ (looking between Jonathan and Timothy) _

Please,  _ both  _ of you--

_ (rising from his chair) _

I have yet to meet a willing target; 

neither have I met a willing weapon 

with good intentions. I believe--

_ (waving a finger pointedly at Jonathan) _

and  _ you  _ know--

_ (back to both of them) _

that there are enemies far greater than

each other. Whatever anger I harbor, 

hidden or plain, I will  _ not  _ wave a war flag

for it, nor will I shoot verbal cannons

over garden walls.

Jon cringes softly, seeing as he’s essentially one of those weapons at Martin’s disposal. For better or for worse, that was the role that he had been given, and it’s likely still a role that Martin will want of him in the future. No matter what protections they’ve sworn for each other. “... Understood.”

LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD, w _ earily, with a soft smile: _

_ Thank  _ you.

If I may excuse myself, I am…

Easily worn through by arguments

among friends. 

“It’s not a matter of ‘if you may’- it’s a matter of ‘if you will,'” Melanie says, leaning back in her stolen seat, “but then again, doesn’t look like there’s much will around here to spare.”

[The briefest flickering of lights as Timothy throws her a very pointed look.]

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL:

If  _ you  _ will forgo your comments 

for one moment.

LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD,  _ gesturing loosely with his hand for Timothy to be quiet: _

Timothy, please--

I  _ will  _ excuse myself, then, if you require

such a distinction. 

“It’s not me who needs the distinction- it’s your Knight,” Melanie smiles, maybe somewhat wickedly, but more to keep up the ‘devil-may-care’ act. It makes dealing with this entire production  _ much  _ easier. “Who hasn’t been doing a very good job of defending you, looks like.”

Jon bites the inside of his cheek, throwing a glare at Melanie, “Didn’t you hear a word my Lord said about not making war over garden spats?”

“But this isn’t just a spat- not for you, anyway.” Melanie says, “You already know what I mean, right? No need to say you don’t agree with him publicly.”

_ A moment of hesitation from Lord Martin Blackwood as his gaze flickers between Melanie and Jonathan. _

LORD MARTIN BLACKWOOD,  _ pointing at Jonathan: _

If you  _ will  _ it, I would request your

explanation when the sun next rises.

For now--I believe I  _ will  _ grant myself

the chance to dream this away.

Goodnight--please refrain from

causing more damage, if you  _ will. _

_ EXIT Lord Martin Blackwood. _

Jon watches Martin quietly leave the stage and slowly disappear into the darkness of the rest of the backstage construction beyond stage left. His hands shake, but he’s unsure which is the piece that unsettles him the most- Timothy’s acting, Martin’s strange behavior, Melanie’s interference or the abrupt ending of the conversation. Looking into the direction Martin left, he whispers, “I didn’t even have the chance to tell him good night…”

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ smirking: _

The poorest of souls, you are.

Melanie says, dropping the overly exuberant act, “And I didn’t get to tell him about the ghosts.”

SASHA, A HOUSEKEEPER,  _ head snapping toward Melanie’s direction: _

The  **what?**

Melanie doesn’t even turn her head in their direction. The lights on stage flicker in response and in Jon’s eyes, they look eerily like a warning.

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ with a frustrated, somewhat angry groan as he turns to face Melanie: _

Ah, so you have  _ more  _ to reveal, do you?

Pray tell, is there a  _ third _ unexplained and

unfathomable horror? Open only to 

the senses of the gods, perhaps?

[The remaining blue lights from Lord Martin Blackwood’s presence on stage flicker and go out.]

TIMOTHY, THE FOOL,  _ slightly softer and more bitter: _

Are we to live every day in this place

awaiting nothing but Hellish prophecy?

Our Lordship is far from

the only tired soul.

[Another flickering of the lights before they dim, only slightly, but permanently.]

End Scene.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With regards to our previous liability statement as dictated in Section 1 of this work, "The Persons of the Play," we would like to tell our readers to pay no mind to Anonymous X in the comments--they have made their decision and any potential effects are out of our hands. We would also like to remind all readers that this work is a Leitner and should be treated as such.

**Author's Note:**

> A warning: From chapter 13 on, there is a tw for unreality in the comment section. Thank you!


End file.
